


The After

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: AU, Gen, Guerrilla Warfare, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mostly the pining and romance, Mutual Pining, Nuclear Warfare, Post-Apocalypse, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Slow Burn, War, but that’s it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-12-22 22:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 55,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: In the wake of World War Three, the heroes of the world bear the brunt of the blame. The ‘Resolution’ follows, branding all heroes and associates traitors against the worldwide dictatorship of Lex Luthor. Will the Bat Family survive the crisis? Can they make a difference against the new regime? And will a forbidden romance threaten to tear them to shreds?





	1. Remainders

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are loved and appreciated, and I answer EVERY comment! Love it or hate it, let me know it!

First came the war.

Technology was evolving faster than our morals. A handful of countries decided to use people with special abilities. Trafficking and trading them like commodities. They used a combination of old fashioned coercion and designer drugs to keep their new super-soldiers in line.

The Justice League and United Nations tried to bring them to the table. To find a diplomatic fix for a humanitarian crisis. Markovia. Bialya. North Korea. Russia. A smattering of others. They came with ‘evidence’, they said, that meta-humans weren’t humans at all. That they were, at best, weapons. And at worst, threats.

They left the negotiations more angry and resolved than when they came. But we had more information. Intel about a meta-human detention center, where anyone with powers from those countries was sent with a clear objective. Get with ‘the program’. Or die.

A simple JLA rescue mission to extract prisoners from Markovia went sideways. The crown retaliated with nuclear force. World War III. It took five years and far too many lives to reach a tenuous ceasefire, and then humanity breathed a collective sigh of relief. Too soon.

Nobody saw it coming. Not even Batman. Lex Luthor’s post-war endgame was sudden and brutal. He offered his wealth and leadership to any and every country that wanted it. The price? Complete martial law, under his rule. Nobody fought him. Who could? Resources were threadbare and people were sick. Tired. Dying. He offered hope wrapped up in a dictatorship. Any country that didn’t submit was choked off from trade and resources until they did. It took him only 6 months to set up his new, draconian world government.

Then “The Resolution” came. Heroes, our newly-minted President declared, were the cause of the war, and were henceforth traitors. Anyone who was a known member of the JLA or an associate was to be killed on sight. We lost so many in the early days. But the public execution of Superman made it all seem real.

The details were limited. We didn’t know how or when Luthor captured Clark. All we could do was watch, helplessly, in horror, as a grainy broadcast showed his final moments. Kryptonite poisoning. Slow, tortuous. Cruel. His death was a warning to any other ‘heroes’ still standing. ‘Your days are numbered’.

They came for us, too. After Clark, Diana, Arthur… anyone who couldn’t or wouldn’t retreat off-world. Enforcers, Lex’s ‘elite’ force, razed Wayne Manor to the ground, hollowed out the ‘Cave. Thank God Bruce is always ten steps ahead - we were already long gone. Crowded into an unassuming bomb shelter underneath a derelict stadium, retrofitted long ago to accommodate our family of bats. But we lost Steph and Duke in our retreat. Tim lost an eye. And Damian refused to speak to any of us for days, branding us ‘cowards’.

Truthfully, we felt like cowards. There was little we could do - Enforcers patrolled the surface constantly, and we were still licking our deep wounds.

But we are nothing if not adaptable.

We fell into roles, teams. Dami, Cass, and Selina were supply runners. They would head out at night, go ‘shopping’, and come back with what we needed. It was tricky. If they hit a private business, the team compensated with gold, jewels, rations... anything that might be valuable. Tradable. More often than not they went for government installations. Massive risk, better rewards. And everything had to be scanned and disassembled by Tim and Babs. Couldn’t risk a stray tracker being our undoing.

The two of them worked with the limited computers and gadgets we had, monitoring security cameras, covering tracks. Sometimes they planned with the others to bring back stolen tech to boost their own capabilities, but it was all very ‘shoestring’. They did what they could.

That left Jason, Bruce, and me. Field agents. Taking down as many soldiers as possible, all with the hope of wresting control of Gotham back from Luthor. Honestly, it was a fool's errand. Mostly we’d head out, get our asses handed to us, and then come ‘home’ to use precious medical supplies as Alfred dutifully patched us up. Rinse and repeat, night after night. Making no headway.

That was about to change. At least, I hoped.

“We know Luthor controls his soldiers with drugs - a combination of opiates, fear toxin, and something else we can’t place. Without a constant supply, they start to withdrawal, turn on each other. What we didn’t know, until now, is that the compound is volatile; doesn’t travel well. Each major city has its own manufacturing plants to keep everyone drugged and compliant.” Barbara unrolled a large map of the city on a table as she spoke - gone were the days of interactive holograms. We had to relearn to do so much the old way. The hard way.

Tim picked up the briefing, “Gotham has two plants; the old ACE chemical building, and the Dupree warehouse.” He marked them with post-it notes. “If we hit them both, their access is cut. Best case scenario, we might get some time in Gotham without the Enforcers. Even if that doesn’t happen, they’re still going to have to risk flying in drugs, giving us an opening at another strike. And with as touchy as this stuff is, they may blow themselves sky high in the process anyway.”

Jason and I exchanged wary glances. Not that we weren’t up to something like this, but we hadn’t done anything this carefully orchestrated without comms and heads-up displays in a long time. Not since our Robin days. So much could go wrong.

Jason was always good at finding the heart of my unspoken concerns. “And how exactly are we going to ‘hit’ them? If this shit is as nasty as you say, what keeps us from blowing ourselves to fuck and back?”

“Semtex,” Damian chimed in, the corner of his mouth tipping up in an almost-smile, “Procured it last night. Unfortunately there were no detonators. But a time delay fuse will suffice.”

I rubbed my face, shook my head. “I hate this plan.”

“It’s not as solid as we’d like, I get it,” Babs sighed sympathetically, “But every day we go undiscovered is a day on borrowed time. We can’t wait. If we can have even a few days without Luthor’s forces, we stand a chance at actually getting real gear. Supplies. Computers. Weapons. It’s the only way we can last down here.”

“We’ll divide into teams.” Bruce seemed exhausted, spread thin. Hell, we all did. “Selina and I will go to ACE, Dick and Jason, you take Dupree. Light fuses at 0200 and head back as soon as you confirm detonation. You have 3 hours before we move.”

“What do you say, Goldie, time for a last meal?” Jason nudged my shoulder and smiled. He was the only one who seemed to be impervious to the stress of it all, taking it in stride. Hell, he didn’t even complain about the horrible MREs, or the double-bunked sleeping arrangements. Bruce was right. Jason was ‘a good soldier’. Better than me, anyway.

I shrugged and managed a “Heh” at the gallows humor. Just the thought of eating another goddamned packet of mush made me sick, but I wasn’t going to say a word. I was not going to be the asshole that complained about post-apocalyptic cuisine. We raided the ‘galley’ together, and I actually found a chocolate granola bar instead of the bagged ‘Chili and Macaroni’ that Jason grabbed. Maybe tonight wouldn’t suck after all.

We spent the rest of the time in silence. Checking and double checking our limited gear. Grappling hook - no decel cable, just rope. Half a set of Escrima sticks - I broke one on our last ‘outing’. Most importantly, a block of plastic explosive. I wrapped it carefully and placed it into a small, black backpack. Then I worked on choking back the feeling that this was going to be an absolute disaster.

“You ready to roll out, Goldie?” Jason grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

I smiled through a lie, “Ready as I’ll ever be, Little wing.”


	2. Detonate

Cold. It was always cold, now. The War had left thick ashy clouds in its wake, blotting out the sun for years. Now, during the day at least, the sun peeked through wanly, casting a grey haze over the city. Warming it ever so slightly. At night, it still typically dipped near freezing, even in the summer. And the winter… well. The winters were hell. 

Jason and I waited on a rooftop near Dupree Chemicals, bundled up against the frigid wind. Focusing, I counted the Enforcers as they patrolled the perimeter. Twenty. And probably more inside. Too many for a smash and go. Which was really unfortunate, because that was Jason’s wheelhouse. 

I leaned against his ear and whispered, “Back window is our best bet. Covert, got it?”

Jason grunted in disappointment. Or acknowledgement. Probably both. I glanced at my watch. 1:40. Time to move. 

For once I was grateful for the howling wind. It whipped through the alley beside the warehouse and made our hasty entrance seem silent. Any banging or rattling would be chalked up to the draft. Once inside, we ID’d our target. A large conical mixing vat. If this stuff was _half_ as unstable as Tim let on, a chunk of plastique detonated on the bottom would level the complex. 

We waited a beat until a patrol passed by, then slipped behind. With Jason covering my back, I set to work. Normally plastic explosive was idiot-level simple to use, but without a remote detonator, it was a little more complicated. I jammed a long string of fuse into the side of the clay and wound it around a bolt on the bottom of the tank. With a final glance and a nod to Jason, I lit it. We moved. 

Back out through the small window, into the alley, up onto the roof of a building nearby, behind the mortar around the edge. We huddled up, clasped our ears, and waited. 

I saw the blast before I heard it, felt it. The starless sky lit up brighter than it had in years, and the firelight reflected back against the permanent fog. And then the wave of sound and force, reaching us even tucked away behind cinderblocks. Next, a klaxon, dull over the ringing in my ears. Jason tugged on my arm. Was he yelling? I couldn’t tell. The explosion had been massive. We had been too close. 

“We gotta _go_, man!” He was white faced, pulling on me frantically. 

Distantly, I nodded. I couldn’t focus. I sat up. 

Pain. Bright and sharp, it tore through my shoulder. Jason slammed his hand over my mouth to stop the scream as it was forming. 

“I know. I know, buddy. Hurts like fuck, I’m sure. But we can’t stay here.” He spared a glance behind him before heaving me to my feet. I looked out over the edge at the damage - three city blocks were leveled and on fire. Civilians and Enforcers alike were running frantically. Children were standing in the street, shivering in spite of the blaze. 

“We have to help them.” I was very aware that my heart was pounding with the effort of standing, that I couldn’t _quite_ feel the fingers on my left hand. But none of that could matter. People were in danger. _We_ had put them in danger. 

Jason shook his head, “We have to help _you_.” He motioned to my shoulder, and I looked down to find a length of rebar, bent and rusted, sticking out of the bloodied joint. 

“Oh.” There was no surprise, no urgency in my voice. Probably because none of this seemed real. That wasn’t _my_ arm. _We_ didn’t kill civilians and destroy their homes. 

I nodded, and Jason scooped his arm under the other shoulder. I leaned against him, surprised to find him trembling, too. “You hurt, Jay?”

“No. But we’re gonna be dead if we don’t stop talking and get the fuck out of here.” 

The trip back was a haze. Injuries be damned, we still had to double around, take precautions, make sure we weren’t followed. We wound our way down the stairs, past our limited security, and into the bunker. Home. 

Bruce and Selina were already back, waiting. Worried. 

“Report.” Even though he had to leave the cape and cowl behind years ago, Bruce would always be Batman. And that _growl_ made every single one of us stand at attention. 

Jason jutted his chin towards Tim, accusing. “Boy Genius neglected to mention that the chemicals could level half a goddamn neighborhood. We were too close. Dick took shrapnel. But the target was destroyed. Mission successful.” 

I shook my head as Alfred guided me back to our cobbled-together medbay. _Mission successful?_ Bullshit. We destroyed a government installation without any consideration for the collateral damage, the civilian lives lost. The children, orphaned and terrified, standing in the streets. 

Alfred washed his hands in a pot of too-hot water, then set to work, cutting away my clothes (damn it, did I have more cold-weather gear?) and examining the entry point. 

“I’m afraid I’ll need to remove this in order to properly assess the damage. Are you ready?” He braced his hand on my arm, and gripped the rebar with the other. I closed my eyes and nodded, sucking in a deep breath. 

Slowly, relentlessly, he tugged at the metal, twisting to loosen it, doing his damndest not to make everything _worse_. The agony of it was nauseating, but I’d had practice with silence under duress. At last, the bar cut loose suddenly and a cascade of blood poured out of the wound. 

“Ah, Fuck!” 

For once, Alfred didn’t chastise my foul mouth. He was too busy rinsing the bloodied maw out with saline, then packing it with gauze. 

“We’re out of sutures, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, sir.”

I was the one who got my stupid self injured and _he_ was the one apologizing. I was sure we were running low on everything else, too - medical supplies were the hardest to come by. He finished filling the wound, then covered it with more gauze and tape. 

I slid off of the table to my feet, steadying myself for a moment before joining the others. Even before the world went to hell, there wasn’t time for malingering. Now, a hurt soldier was as useless as a dead one. And we couldn’t afford any more dead soldiers. 

Jay and Tim had gotten into it by the time I made it over to our makeshift tactical area. 

“You _think_ you underestimated the payload? Dick could’ve been killed! And we’re not exactly winning hearts and minds if we’re blowing up fucking _kids_!” Leave it to Jay to lay out the facts without the bullshit. 

“It was a tactical error. But it will be worth it if we get even a partial retreat of the Enforcers. The civilians will be even _safer_ if we can manage to keep them out for longer.” Tim was flushed, justifying. Hoping Jay would let it slide. 

Things like this happened more often, now, without our tech to back us up. But even so, we all stood, feeling the unspoken reality. This wasn’t a success. We weren’t rebels, fighting the good fight anymore. We were terrorists. Striking out and killing innocents if it meant we might further our cause. 

God, when did we become the enemy?


	3. Limited

I slept badly that night. I wish I could say it was just my shoulder screaming at me, or my stomach growling, but it wasn’t. The faces of the terrified kids standing in the road, eyes lit up against the backdrop of _our_ fuck up were painted inside my eyelids. I managed a few fitful hours before I gave up. Gingerly, quietly, I slipped off the top bunk and over to the medbay. Somebody had to take stock of just how desperate this situation was - might as well be me. 

Absently, I grabbed a handful of wrapped supplies and our log book. The sitting still, the _waiting_ and the _boredom_ of everything threatened to drive me crazy. I had to keep busy. Keep moving. 

Twenty-Five small gauze pads. 

Being here, in this bunker, sharing 500 square feet with 7 other people - I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Family or no, sometimes the air seemed so close and rank I thought I might suffocate. 

Fifteen large gauze pads. 

My hands were shaking. The ceiling was too close. Regulation - 6’ 5”. Above, tons of dirt and rocks. Pressing down…

_Three_ bottles of sterile saline. 

We were sitting in a tomb. A catacomb for Bruce’s brood. How long could we hide, really, before the Enforcers found us? Gunned us down until the floor ran red? 

_You’re treading dangerously close to a panic attack, moron._

Six? Seven? Packages of cloth tape. 

“You alright, Dickiebird?”

Jason pulled the rolls from my unsteady hands and narrowed his eyes, waiting for a response. 

“Yeah, just… inventory.” I shrugged, wincing. That quickly, I’d forgotten that I’d been impaled a few hours ago. Idiot. I tried to turn away, but Jason grabbed my wrist. 

“It’s ok to not be ok, you know? Anybody with half a heart would be pissed about what happened. And, Christ, you’ve got heart to spare.” 

I smiled wanly, waiting for him to release me. He didn’t. Instead, he stared at me, tightening his grip and waiting for an honest response. 

A lie would have to do. “I’m fine, Jay. Just couldn’t get comfortable so I thought I’d be productive.” 

He sighed and rolled his eyes, then leaned in, pulled me close, and whispered, “The truth, Dick. Tell me the truth.” 

His hot breath ghosted across my cheek and I looked away, shuddering. “You’re hurting me, Jason.”

Dropping my wrist like he’d been burned, he mumbled a half-apology, “My bad. You need to eat more, though. Felt like bird bones.” 

“I’ll take it under advisement, Dr. Todd.” I’d intended that as a joke. It came out soaked in venom - a scathing rebuke against an education cut short. What the hell was wrong with me? Jason looked like I’d slapped him. I was mustering strength for an apology of my own when Selina sauntered by. 

“Everything alright, kittens? Time for a bandage change, hm?” She pointed at my shoulder, the wound now bleeding through the gauze. 

I shook my head, grateful for the shift in focus away from the building tension. “I can wait a few more hours. Don’t want to tear through what we have left. Which, by the way, isn’t much. We’re one bad night away from being cleaned out.” 

“That won’t fly with _me_ little bird. If we don’t stay on top of this, you’ll get an infection. And one thing we _can’t_ seem to find is antibiotics. So sit down, relax, and let me take care of you.” 

Relenting, I took a seat. Jason shot me a look that said ‘we’re not done talking’ and stalked away. 

Carefully, Selina pulled the tape and outer bandage away, revealing an angry red hole, scarlet tendrils streaking away from the bruised opening. With a sour face, she pulled the packed gauze out, cringing at the thick, yellow ooze that clung to the fabric. 

“Damn. Infected already. That was fast. You feeling ok, sweetie?” She knitted her brows and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead, then cupped my cheeks. “No fever, yet. Thank God. Let’s just get this changed and rinsed. Did we have any more antiseptic…” she trailed off as she dug through drawers and cabinets. 

“I’m fine. Honestly. It barely hurts anymore.” Another lie. I was full of them. 

Her commotion brought Jason back, this time with two tiny bottles of vodka. 

“What’re we celebrating?” I joked. An olive branch. My unspoken apology for being so short before. 

“You, not dying of sepsis.” He handed the bottles to Selina, and she uncapped one. 

“Sorry, kitten. This is going to hurt.” 

Slowly, so she didn’t waste any, she poured the first bottle into the gash. The pain was immediate and bright, like being hit by lightning. It seared deep into my shoulder, down my arm, into my chest. I bit down hard on my knuckles to stifle my own screams - Jason offered the sleeve of his leather jacket instead. Blindly, I accepted the trade. 

She wasn’t finished. She cracked open the next bottle and dipped a long cotton swab inside, then pushed it deep into the wound, pulling out foul-looking chunks of flesh and pus. 

Tears slid down my cheeks and I started to shake, but Jason held me tight with his free arm. In spite of the agony, I felt safe. Warm. As Selina finished I dimly realized it had been months since I’d had physical contact of any kind, much less something this close to a hug. I leaned against his chest, listened to his reassuring heartbeat…

He pulled away. And I hated myself for wishing he hadn’t. 

“There we go, you did really well.” Selina smiled at me and patted my cheek. 

She stood and leaned in towards Jason. I could barely make out her whisper, “At this rate, he’ll be septic in a day, maybe two. Watch for a fever, blisters, pain. That sort of thing. I need to go shopping.”

She tiptoed over to Cass’ bunk, gently shaking her awake and preparing to leave. 

I wanted to help. It was my stupid shoulder that was the problem. But I felt hollow, wooden. Jason helped me to my feet and we shuffled back to my cot. 

“You get bottom, got it Goldie?” The hesitation in Jason’s voice betrayed him. He was worried. 

I nodded, sliding under the thin wool blanket, suddenly too tired to argue. 

“Stay with me?” The thought slipped past my lips without warning. I winced, waiting for the rejection. 

“You got it, Dickie. Be easier to keep an eye on your temp, anyway.” 

I pushed as close to the wall as possible, and he pulled himself against me, avoiding my shoulder as best he could, arms looped around my waist to keep himself from falling. 

I buried my face in his chest and finally found sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are loved and appreciated, and I answer EVERY comment! Love it or hate it, let me know it!


	4. Gone

I woke up alone. And freezing. Painful shivers tore through my muscles. I sat up anyway. 

_An injured soldier is as good as a dead one._

“Woah there, Goldie.” Jason was at my side again, pressing me back down onto the cot. “You’ve got a fever, and your shoulder is seriously fucked. You’re not going anywhere.”

Somewhere in my brain there _had_ to be a witty retort, but I couldn’t find it. Instead I just murmured, “Thirsty.”

“Figured.” He held the rim of a bottle against my lips and I sipped tentatively. “No ice chips. On account of not having a freezer. Sorry.” 

He looked so _worried_, so I managed a smile and a quip, “Who needs ice chips when I have such a cute nurse?” 

There was a hesitation - his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and then he rolled his eyes and smiled, too. 

“Good news and bad news. Good news is we found you some antibiotics. You’ll be fine. Probably.” Jason pressed a handful of powdery pills into my palm. I eyed them with suspicion, but took them anyway. 

“And the bad news?” I probably should have asked that first. But I had a fever - lapses in judgment were bound to occur. 

“They’re fish antibiotics. Damian’s idea. They raided a pet store.” Jason’s eyes lit up as if he’d just told the world's best joke. 

“They still have pet stores up there?” I asked. 

“Really? _That’s_ your question? Not, ‘Why am I taking fish pills’ or ‘How do fish even swallow pills?’”

The banter, the back and forth, Jason’s easy smile… things I savored. Things I wanted to remember for the rest of my life. 

Which suddenly wasn’t looking very long. 

“We have heat signatures at the north entrance to the stadium, everyone,” Tim barked, loudly enough for me to forget the pain and jump to my feet, biting back bile as the bunker swam and spun in front of my eyes. 

“How many?” Bruce leaned over Tim’s shoulder, eyes darting from screen to screen as he tried to assess the situation. 

“Looks like at least a full team of ten. Could just be a patrol?” Babs tried to sound sure, but we were all vibrating with the unspoken fear: they found us. 

I sucked in a breath, stood to full height, did my best to seem unhurt and fully capable. Because I knew what had to be done. 

“We need to throw them off the scent. Send me out there, and Jay, if he wants to come. We get in a few hits, run off to one of his old apartments, then ditch them. Circle back here when it’s safe. They’ll think they found an active safehouse and be satisfied. And they won’t think to look too deeply here.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, and I did everything I could to hide weakness from his scrutiny. “Your shoulder?” he asked. 

“Better,” I lied. “Good enough. We don’t need to hit hard, we need to be fast. And we can’t send everyone because they’ll know they found our hideout. It has to look like a coincidence, like we came and found _them_, not the other way around.”

Bruce glanced back at the computer, noting the heat signatures moving deeper into the stadium, closer to our sanctum. He nodded. “Go. Take Jason. Be quick. No unnecessary risks. Get them off our trail and come back.” 

I did my best to ignore Jay’s scowl that said ‘this is a fucking terrible idea’ before nodding decisively to Bruce. “You got it, Boss.”

We moved, Jason and me. I tried not to look back at Damian’s desperately anxious face. An expression that begged me not to go. _This is a suicide mission and you know it, Grayson._

I didn’t have any words of comfort. He was probably right. But I also knew I was too far gone for fish pills and a prayer - I was dead anyway. And this beat lying in a cot for days, using up supplies, then dying of sepsis. 

Once we were far enough away from the bunker to safely talk, Jason grabbed my good shoulder and stopped me, hissing in a low whisper, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You are in no shape to be out here. I only agreed to come along to keep you from getting yourself killed.” 

“You can yell at me later. Now, we need to go. They’re getting close.” 

We knew the tunnel system under the stadium intimately, and we should have been able to catch the intruders at the concourse. But Jason was right. I was slow. Tired. Sick. Really fucking sick. And the Enforcers were barreling through the derelict concessions stands on the lower level by the time we made it up and out. 

We ducked behind a concrete wall - the old partition between the bathrooms - and waited until they had just passed by. Then, with the best smile I could manage, and a nod from Jason, I lobbed my last escrima stick at the head of their point leader. It connected, and he dropped with an echoing thud. 

The others spun around, firing blindly into the space behind them, but we had tucked ourselves back out of sight. We waited. They stopped. Looked around bewildered. 

With my fingers I counted to three, and as the last digit slipped out of my fist, Jason and I took off at a sprint, hollering taunts and insults at the patrol, booking it for the exit. Predictably, the Enforcers followed. I leapt over the turnstiles on my way out, jarring my shoulder. The pain was immediate, nearly bringing me to my knees. I kept running.

This wasn’t our first time playing cat and mouse with soldiers. Usually, on nights with Bruce, Jason and I would run like this, peeling away groups so Bruce could rain hell on them with efficiency.

But right now we needed all of them on us, needed to get them far enough away so they wouldn’t come back. And maybe if they managed to pick one of us off, blocks away, they might even consider the threat neutralized and stop searching for us all together. 

I could be ok with making that sacrifice. I’d prefer a bullet to the back to languishing in bed, waiting to die of an infection. Go out a hero, not a burden. 

And it looked like I wouldn’t have much choice, anyway. We’d only gotten a few streets away before I lagged behind, breathless and in pain. Jason was running on pure adrenaline. Laughing like a maniac. Drawing attention to himself. Following the plan. 

I fell. A loose cobblestone plus a jacked equilibrium and I was down, sprawled flat on the road. Surrounded by armor clad soldiers and their M16s. 

_Don’t look back, Jason. Keep running. Please, just keep running._

I shut my eyes tight, tried to take a deep breath. Waited for the booming gunfire that would herald the end. 

“It’s one of the Bats. What should we do, Sergeant?” An incredulous voice whispered instead, and I slowly released what I expected to be my final breath. 

A brusque order came next. 

“Tranq him.” 

I opened my eyes in time to see the terrified face of a junior Enforcer as he crouched down beside me and jammed a needle in my thigh. I did my best to stay awake, stay oriented, but it was less than a second before the warm darkness creeped into my vision. 

And then I was gone.


	5. Cell

Bright lights. Scratchy blanket. Hard cot. Did I make it back, somehow?

Slowly I opened my eyes. I was not, in fact, in the bunker. Memories floated out of reach and I took stock of my new home - a 6x6 metal and concrete cell, with a garish orange door made of thick steel and a sliver of double paned glass. I fought against the panic as I recognized my surroundings.

Blackgate Penitentiary. The Solitary Housing Unit, if I remembered right.

On the floor by the door sat a styrofoam tray. With a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly? A bottle of milk. A bag of potato chips. An apple.

Food. Real fucking food.

It was probably poisoned. Or drugged. Was this how they got their Enforcers hooked? Ply them with soft bread laced with god knows what until they were compliant? There was no way in hell I was going to eat.

My stomach growled traitorously.

_The apple might be safe,_ I reasoned. I plucked it off the tray and examined it closely.

_They could have covered the skin with something and you’d never know._

Damn. That was a good point. I set it back down and took to pacing instead. Oddly enough, I felt a little less sick. I rotated my shoulder a bit, testing it, surprised at the reasonable range of motion. I pulled up the sleeve of the grey prison scrubs I had been changed into.

Clean gauze. Fresh tape. Stitches underneath the bandage?

Now I was _really_ confused. Since Lex’s takeover, there’s been a ‘kill on sight’ order for any ‘heroes’. By rights I shouldn’t be alive. I shouldn’t be _here_.

I peered out the minuscule window. Was there a guard? Other inmates?

The prison was curiously well maintained. And that was pretty much the only thing I could see. I sat back down on the cot, stewing in my own unanswered questions.

I bounced my leg. More waiting. More boredom. No answers. No way to mark the passing of time.

_The milk is in a closed bottle. You could at least have that. Right?_

I was so hungry. It was the only thing I could focus on. I grabbed the milk, inspected the lid for tampering, then cracked it open.

It was room temperature, thick, and a little too sweet, but it was the best thing I’d ever had. Greedily, I gulped it down, tapping the bottom to free the last cloying drops.

With the pain in my stomach subsiding, I laid back down, curled my knees to my chest, and drifted off to sleep.

— — — — — — —

I was at my apartment in Gotham when the first bomb hit. A surface strike to D.C. that had somehow managed to evade detection by early warning systems. Almost a million dead in an instant.

The target? JLA headquarters.

Horrified, I stared at the television broadcast detailing which areas were under ‘shelter in place’ restrictions, and I almost missed the furious banging at my door. Dazed, I opened it, surprised to find a terrified Jason on the other side. He pulled me into a tight hug.

“We need to get inside,” I managed to sputter, “Shelter in place. We’re in range of fallout.”

I tugged him over the threshold and shut the door. Unasked, my brain listed off the steps to keep us safe.

Turn off the A/C.

Get to an interior room.

Put wet towels around the door.

Jason stood, mouth agape, transfixed by the television as I set to work.

I jostled Jason’s shoulder. “Bathroom’s the only place without windows. We should go there for a while.”

He nodded absently. I pulled him off the couch and we went together. He sank down onto the hard tile floor as I pressed damp cloths along the cracks at the door jamb.

“We are so fucked, aren’t we?” I wouldn’t have recognized Jason’s voice, trembling and cracking.

“We’ll… we’ll we be ok. It’s probably about 10, maybe 25 rads per hour outside. In here, it’ll be less than one rad per hour. As long as we stay put for the next day or so, it’ll be ok, Jay.”

I tried to sound sure. Clinical. Scientific. Tried not to echo the terror on Jason’s face. But my heart ached with its relentless pounding.

We both pulled out our phones, scouring for news. D.C. was far enough away that EMPs weren’t a concern, and Wayne Satellites kept our signal strong.

“Dickie?”

“Yeah?”

“They just hit San Francisco, too. And New York. New York’s close…” Jason stopped, but I could see the question lingering on his lips.

“It’s ok. New York is upwind from us. We should… we should still be ok. Might have to stay in here a little longer, is all.” I was desperately trying to keep my shit together. For him. “I texted Bruce, they’re ok - him, Alfred, Tim, Cass, and Dami. Cave is shielded. No word on Duke or Babs, yet. They’re both smart - they’ll be alright.”

I sat down on the floor next to him. For a long time, there was only the sound of our breathing, and my heartbeat raging in my ears.

“Dickie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jay.”

He shook his head, “No. No, it’s the end of the fucking world, I have to say this. I love you. Like, love you. Have for years. If we’re going to die shoulder to shoulder in your awful, green bathroom, I need you to know.”

“I…” my reply was crushed under his lips as he pulled me over to him, moving me on to his lap. Fervently, I kissed back, fear and desperation driving me to cling as close as I could. After all, Jay was probably right. It was the end of the world.

Neither of us banked on surviving.

— — — — — — —

“Grayson!”

The slide of metal and a sharp voice pulled me back to Blackgate.

“Put your back against the door, wrists through the opening. Don’t make me say it twice.” The commands were terse, practiced.

Briefly, I thought about fighting against the faceless voice outside the cell. But I wasn’t that stupid or desperate yet. Wordlessly, I did as I was told. Frigid metal cuffs tightened against my wrists, and I hissed as my shoulder was pulled and twisted in the position.

“One big step away from the door, then turn around.” This was _not_ the guards first rodeo. Again I complied, and the door swung open.

“Step forward into the hallway.” The guard was huge, towering. He swung a baton in his hands as an unspoken threat. A smaller man (kid maybe? couldn’t be more than 18) attached gang chains and manacles.

_Ultra max protocols. They know you’re a threat._

“Where are we going?” I tried to sound bright, unassuming. Genuinely interested.

Big and Beefy tipped my chin up with his billy club and addressed the other guard. “He looks like a biter to me, don’t you think, Terrance? Hand me the muzzle, why don’t you?” He laughed to himself as he tightened a leather mask over my jaw and mouth. He leaned against my ear and growled, “In _my_ prison, you speak when spoken to, understand? Let’s go. Don’t want to keep the inspector waiting.”


	6. Compromised

The “inspectors” office was far more utilitarian than I had anticipated. I imagined something pretentious, ultra modern - a workspace that might reflect Lex Luthor and his regime. Instead, I was led into a small windowless room lined with filing cabinets. Mr. Big-and-Beefy pushed hard on my bad shoulder and forced me into an aluminum chair facing a nondescript metal and Formica desk. I growled in pain and shot him a look. Everything about this guy said “I am a sadistic man with a small sliver of power and I intend to abuse it.” 

I sat in silence, counting my rabbit- fast heartbeats, until a severe looking woman in a tightly tailored suit took her seat on the other side of the desk. She idly flipped through a file in front of her, and then waved her hand dismissively, “You may go, Officer Davis.”

“Ma’am?” he dug his fingers into the back of my neck, asserting his control over me. 

“Was I not clear? And remove the bite guard, you _know_ that’s excessive force. You should thank me for not writing you up.” She looked at him, sighing, eyebrows raised in expectation. 

I could see Davis suppress a sneer before he did as he was told, removing the leather binding from my chin with a warning look at me. I smiled sarcastically. 

_Good to know there’s someone here who can control this asshole._

“Go.” The woman shooed him out with her hand, then returned her attention to the folder before her. 

The wall clock marked the seconds... minutes… as she wordlessly turned page after page. Photographs, notes, newspaper clippings. All about me. I shifted uncomfortably in the seat - How could they know so much about us, when we knew so little about _Them_. 

“Well, well, Mr. Grayson. You are an interesting man.” She folded her hands in front of her on the desk and met my venomous glare with a deceptively soft expression. “My name is Inspector Marie LeGrande, and my job is to gather the necessary information about detainees before they go in front of the Tribunal.” 

We had only minimal intel about how this new government actually _worked_, other than a vague knowledge of how Draconian it was. Most offenses were punished with slavery as an Enforcer, or public execution. There had been no mention of a court system of any kind. My eyes tightened with confusion.

She smiled. Half warm, half cunning. “Feel free to ask questions, Mr. Grayson. Transparency is very important to our process.”

Curiosity got the best of me. “I was under the impression that the mask-and-cape crowd was killed on sight. Why am I here?”

“You mean why did we treat your wounds and give you nutritious food instead of shooting you like a dog in the street?” Her smile didn’t fade, but it became more and more unsettling as she spoke, “President Luthor is a man of compassion - we have laws against outright cruelty.”

_Keep it together, Grayson. You don’t exactly have the upper hand, here._

I scoffed, fighting to keep my voice at a reasonable volume. “Compassion? Was _murdering_ Clark Kent an example of Luthor’s compassion? Maybe the meaning of that word has changed since he conquered the world.”

“_Terrorists_,” she emphasized, “do face execution. Wanton disregard for the rule of law and endangerment of the citizenry is not tolerated.”

I rolled my eyes, tiring of the doublespeak, “That brings us back to my original question: why am I _here_?”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she turned her attention back to the file. “How old were you? When your parents were murdered and were press-ganged into life as a child soldier? Eight, nine?” She clucked her tongue in feigned sympathy. 

I tightened my jaw, closed my eyes. I did _not_ like where this was going.

“I only ask because it’s rather a point of contention with the Tribunals.” She leaned back and continued, “Do we hold terrorists accountable if they were forced into aberrance as minors? The consensus has been to extend a chance at rehabilitation to former child-soldiers. Though, to date, few have taken the offer. It seems the so-called ‘Justice League’ was well practiced in conditioning underage recruits. They’d all rather be executed than put their skills to use for their government.” 

My dumb mouth took the bait. “Well, your sales pitch could use some work. Most people aren’t going to go for the ‘join us or die’ approach.”

She scowled, a harsh rebuke against my misplaced humor. “And what approach did Bruce Wayne use? Did he offer you a chance at vengeance? Did he hand out morsels of praise like sweets? Or was it worse than that? I can only imagine the horror of having the Batman as a father.” 

The saccharine concern in her voice coupled with that vile patronizing smile - it was all I could do to keep my temper in check. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I spat. 

“Really? Because, in a rational world, a grown man beating a third-grader under the guise of ‘sparring’ in order to ‘train’ him to act as a criminal accomplice is considered _abuse_, Mr. Grayson.” She looked at me like I was the most pitiful person she’d ever met, and my body tensed in rage against the tight restraints.

“He used you. He’s still using you, counting on your blind devotion to keep his location a secret.” Her face contorted in disgust. “Think about the rest of your family. Don’t your brothers deserve a chance at life away from such a corrupting influence? If you tell me where you have been hiding, I can help them.” 

She flipped to a new page, running her finger down a list of names. “Damian, for example, is _still_ a minor. He wouldn’t face repercussions of any kind, and he would be placed in a real, loving home with certified, competent foster parents. Timothy? He would have access to the best computers available to us - he could be a real asset in our efforts to reclaim the world's natural and technological resources after the damage wrought by the ‘Justice League’.” 

Slowly, she pulled out a small photograph and slid it to the edge of the desk for my inspection. “And I know your relationship with Jason is… atypical. Though, with such a troubled background, it’s little wonder that the two of you have no concept of healthy family behaviors. Regardless, I’m sure it would wound you deeply if you were to learn he was killed because you chose _not_ to cooperate.” 

Trembling, I leaned forward. The picture was dark and grainy, but unmistakable. Jason and I, tucked away in an alley, locked in a passionate and desperate kiss. His hands pressing my wrists against a crumbling brick wall. The photo was _months_ old - I remembered that night vividly. The night I told Jason we couldn’t be _together_ like that anymore. But it didn’t matter - it was damning leverage. 

I bowed my head, tightened my jaw. Shame grew in the pit of my stomach. And fear, too. I cursed myself for playing along with her sick game for even a minute. And now I was exposed. Emotionally compromised. I kept my gaze fixed at my feet as she stood. 

“Think about the option of rehabilitation. Really think about it.” She closed my file abruptly, and headed for the door, opening it as aged hinges creaked in protest. “You have some time. It can be months before an investigation like this is complete. That’s a very long time to spend in solitary confinement. Especially for someone like you. We’ll talk again. Soon.” 

She walked into the hallway and waved Davis into the room. Brutally, he hauled me to my feet and tugged me back to the cell. My cell. My new home. Because I wasn’t going to play her game a second time. Even if it killed me 


	7. Secrets and Lies

** __ **

** _Jason Todd_ **

“Hell yes, Dickie! I think we lost those fuckers.”

Panting, heart pounding, I turned around at the end of the alley to face… no one. Slowly, I peeked my head out around the edge of the crumbling brick and mortar wall, narrowing my eyes in the dark. 

Silence. No Enforcers. No Dickie. 

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

We got separated. Not the first time this had happened - the fog at night was usually thick. Sometimes you couldn’t even see your hand in front of your own face. But tonight was reasonably clear…

_He just peeled off. Took an easier route. He’s faster than you, he’s probably already back home._

I clung to whatever lies I could. Anything to keep my heart from climbing up my throat. 

Carefully, hiding in the shadows with every step, I wound back to the stadium, working hard to keep my breath steady so I could hear any potential threats. Usually this late at night, after curfew, you could hear the sounds of boots against stone as the Enforcers made their patrols. But there was nothing. Quiet. 

I tried to take a new way ‘home’ every time. Tonight I had to spare the preamble - the anxiety was building in my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. 

_You're being dramatic. Dick’s safe. He’s probably waiting impatiently for you. _

_Or his shoulder and the infection caught up to him, and the Enforcers gunned him down, dragged his body off to use as propaganda._

_Fuck. Keep it together, Todd._

Finally, in the depths of the tunnels underneath the concourse, I took a final look behind my back and tugged on the latch of the massive, metal door that led to our safehouse. 

I pulled it shut, the hinges groaning with the weight, and turned around, eyes scanning our ‘family’. 

“Where’s Grayson?” Damian had crossed his arms across his chest, and with his shoulders back, he almost met me eye to eye.

Or was I slumped forward a little? Hyperventilating but trying to keep it together. “We got separated. He’s not back yet?” 

Bruce and Selina exchanged dark glances. “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute, kitten.” Selina put a reassuring hand on my cheek. “He’s a man who knows how to take care of himself. Now let’s get you some water, you look exhausted.” 

I pushed back, shaking my head, “He _can’t_ take care of himself. He’s a dumbass with a martyr complex. He’s sick. He shouldn’t have been out there in the first place!” 

_Who are you really mad at, Todd?_

I fixed my rage on Bruce. “You! You _told_ him to go! You knew he was in bad shape. And now, best case scenario, he’s flat on his back in an alley somewhere with a sky high fever, just waiting for the next patrol to make their rounds and put a fucking bullet in his brain!” 

Unmoved by my fury, Bruce sighed. “You’re worried and tired, Jason. Eat. Rest. We’ll discuss this later.”

I was powerless, angry. I wanted nothing more than to beat the crap out of someone. I felt Cass’ hand on my arm. She nodded at me, a silent understanding of how much it fucking _hurt_ to be so helpless, then turned to Bruce. “I can search. I will find.” 

Before Bruce could protest, Selina shot a warning look his way, then smiled at Cass. “That’s a fantastic idea. I’ll join you.” I opened my mouth to volunteer, but she dramatically raised a finger to her lips, shushing me, then explaining, “Jason, _you_ need some sleep. You chased a whole team of Enforcers away from here, and you made it back. Let_ us_ take a turn topside? I need to stretch, anyway.” 

Resigned, I sighed heavily and nodded, the adrenaline crash pulling me down into exhaustion. I plodded over to my cot, too nauseous to eat, and flopped down. The pillow still smelled like him - his sweat and whatever soap we could scrounge. I buried my face in the threadbare cloth. 

_I should have held you closer, Dickie. Held you close and never let go. _

_Except that’s not what you wanted, was it?_

Tears slid down my cheeks and I lost the battle against fatigue, slipping into the darkness. 

— — — — — — — —

_Before_

Patrol was over. In general, a good night. A few cadres of Enforcers would be off the streets for a while, and we kept them from nabbing a kid defacing a poster of our ‘Beloved President Luthor’. Because apparently vandalism of his image was a capital offense these days.

Dick was panting, half bent in an alley, hands resting on his knees. His smile could light up the world, even if we _were_ in the middle of a nuclear winter. I always felt just a little warmer when I was next to him, and I huddled close, out of sight. We still had some time before we had to head back to our bunker and check in. 

I wanted to relish this moment, but things with Dickie were… complicated. That happens when you confess your undying, non-platonic love for someone who’s legally your brother. And then he reciprocates. And also, it was the end of the world. 

For years, all through the war, we had a relationship that was half desperation, half convenience. Then fucking _Luthor_ happened, and while we were even more desperate, our rendezvous were suddenly significantly less convenient. Hard to maintain a taboo ‘romance’ when you’re sharing 500 square feet with 6 other people. 

So there we were, pressed together in the shadows. Shivering from cold and fading adrenaline. I grabbed him, pushed him against the wall, and kissed him. 

God, it was good. I needed it. Needed him. His warm, fluid body pressed against mine, my thigh grinding against him, a maneuver that never failed to leave him breathless. I pinned his wrists against the crumbling mortar, pushed my tongue past his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat... 

He turned away. 

“Jay…” His chest was heaving, his eyes low, gaze fixed on the cement beneath our feet. 

I let go of his arms and tilted his head up. “Look at me, Dickie. What’s wrong?” 

“This.” I barely heard his whisper. “This is wrong, Jason. I’m sorry. When this started, the world was ending, and I needed to be close to someone.We _needed_ each other, but now? We can’t… we can’t do this anymore.” 

A shotgun blast to the gut would have been less painful than his hushed confession. 

I sputtered, confused and backing away, “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Look, it’s just…” he sighed, and I could see him calculating behind a wince, strategizing the best way to explain. “After the Manor was destroyed, the relocation, everything… being so close to the family… I know it’s a technicality, but we’re supposed to be _brothers_. And this…?” He gestured between the two of us, “What we’ve been doing? It’s wrong. Someone is going to catch on eventually. I don’t even want to think about the consequences of that. And we didn’t have to think about it, when we were sure we were all going to die anyway. We could just… be. It’s different now.” 

My eyes shut, blocking out his half horrified, half pitying expression. “So what? We just forget everything? I _love_ you. You said you loved _me.”_

“I do, Jason.” He reached out and touched my shoulder, but I shrugged his hand away. “I love you enough to put your survival first. We wouldn't last a week without the ‘family’. And I’m scared that this thing we have will tear us all apart. I fucked up, Jason. I’m sorry.” 

I nodded, venomous and furious. “Great. So we just pretend none of this happened. Ignore any feelings we have for each other. I can do that. But don’t you _dare_ reach out to me the next time you feel lonely or afraid. If we’re done today, we’re done for good.” 

He couldn’t look at me as a tear slid down his cheek and he nodded, “Ok. That’s fair.” He sniffled a little, then cleared his throat. “We need to get back. If we miss check in they’ll worry.” 

We ducked out of the alley and headed home. And I couldn’t remember a time when I felt this fucking lonely. 

— — — — — — — —

My eyes snapped open when I heard our bunker door screech closed and click. I rolled off the cot and stood, silently pleading for it to be Dick. 

It wasn’t. 

Selina and Cass were back. Empty handed, looking defeated. Her he’d bowed, Cass reached out for my hands. “We searched. No brother. I am sorry.” 

I shook my head and squeezed her fingers. I couldn’t find my voice, so I hoped she understood the unspoken message. _Not your fault_. 

“It wasn’t all in vain.” Selina idly emptied her backpack as she elaborated. “We stopped to talk to one of our reliable suppliers. Matthew. Runs the bodega two blocks from here. He’s always got eyes on the streets, especially after curfew.” She sighed, weighing her words. “He said he saw a man running down the block just a little while ago. Enforcers caught up to him. _Didn’t_ shoot him. Actually hauled him away in one of their tactical vans.” 

Those of us that stayed behind exchanged perplexed glances. If it had been Dick, they would have killed him, no questions asked. All our info up till now told us there was no mercy for ex-heroes. 

Selina nodded, “I was confused, too. Matty filled us in. There’s some kind of court system, now. Heroes on trial. Apparently it’s better for public morale if they believe there is actually some semblance of _justice_. In reality it’s a broadcast designed to air dirty laundry, and paint us all in the least flattering light possible.” 

Bruce huffed, arms crossed over his chest. He turned to Tim and Babs. “We need to know _everything_ about these trials. How often, where they broadcast from, any details you can find. If they took Dick, this may be the only way we get him back.”

“You can’t expect us to sit here while they do fuck knows what to him!” I was furious. The hallmark of Luthor’s regime was brutality. If they had Dickie alive, I had no doubts they would stoop to the worst forms of torture to get what they wanted from him. 

Bruce squared up to me, dropping his arms and stepping close. “Yes, Jason. That’s exactly what I expect you to do. if you don’t, Dick’s as good as dead.” 

_Fuck. I goddamned hated it when Bruce made sense._


	8. Service

** _Dick Grayson_ **

Fifteen meals. Five days, assuming three meals a day. If it was only two meals, it’d be longer. I didn’t want to think about it being longer. The lights never went off, I never left the cell, except once, when Davis chained me up and took me to get a shower. He leered at me for the whole five minutes I had been given, but he didn’t say a word. The silence was part of my punishment, too.

I filled my days with whatever calisthenics I could manage in the claustrophobic space. Handstands, one armed pushups, sit-ups, squats. Reps numbering in the hundreds. Honestly, I usually lost count. 

The morning of the sixth day, I woke up and stretched, surprised to find less resistance from my shoulder. It had taken longer than I should have, but the wound was finally healing, and it was now just an angry purple scar, thick and scabby. 

I rubbed my face, very aware that my stubble had started to turn into a weak, scraggly beard. I didn’t have a mirror, but I could just imagine how I looked - like a castaway on a deserted island, alone and walking close to the edge of insanity. Unanchored from reality, time, and loved ones. 

_Loved ones..._

_Damn it, Jason. Do you know I've regretted every second since I pushed you away? God, I’m so sorry. _

_Maybe it’s for the best. I didn't deserve you anyway._

The slot on my cell door slid open, and a tentative voice slipped in from the hallway. “Mr. Grayson? It’s Terrance… I mean CO Bradley. I’m supposed to take you for yard time?” 

Automatically, like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I slipped my hands through the opening, back against the door. I waited. 

_Yard time? That’s a first. _

_Is it a bad sign that I’m excited?_

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Right. Sorry.” Terrance stumbled over an apology as he loosely clicked the restraints in place. I stepped away and he swung the door open. As always, the next steps were already rote: Stomach chain, leg irons. Each carefully tightened and connected to prevent running or fighting. He stood, making a final check on his work.

_There's no way he’s even eighteen yet. He’s just a kid. And they accuse Bruce of training child-soldiers? Hypocrites._

I smiled down at him as he took my arm. He was at least a head shorter than me, and looked younger than I remembered. His face was set - trying to seem brave but clearly terrified underneath. 

_Terrified of me? Or the consequences if he screws this up?_

I gambled, striking up a conversation as we walked down the corridor. “No CO Davis today?” 

Terrance looked around nervously, “No. out sick. Lot of guys are today.” He stopped short and shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not sure I’m supposed to be talking to you.” 

_Definitely not scared of me. Why do I get the feeling he’s almost as much of a prisoner here as I am?_

I nodded, absently trying to keep track of the steps and turns through the hallways. Finally, we stopped at the door to a half-court gymnasium. My heart sank, and I was ashamed at the disappointment that bubbled up my throat. 

_No yard. No fresh air. No wan sunlight. Just another small room._

For a minute I felt like I was trapped in my own skin, or buried alive. I closed my eyes, tried to imagine wide open spaces, but the stale air made it impossible. Each breath became an explosion, and I did everything I could to slow it down. 

_In four, out six. In six, out eight._

Terrance jostled my shoulder. 

“You ok, man?” 

“Yeah, no, I…” I cursed myself for stammering, and I filled my lungs till I thought they would burst in a failing effort to steady my voice. “Just feeling a little cooped up is all. I grew up in a circus, so lots of big tents, open fairgrounds, and travel. I start to get stir-crazy if I stay in one place too long.” 

I was vaguely aware that I was running my mouth, but I was desperate for some kind of human interaction. And the kid had asked, after all. 

Terrance was wide-eyed, and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder before beaming up at me. “That is _so cool_,” he whispered, “I’m from Gotham, born and bred, so I didn’t do anything exciting like that before… well, before everything.”

He opened the wire gate to the gym and unlocked my restraints. “I get feeling _stuck_ though. My family and me spent weeks in the laundry room at our old apartment during the war, thought I was gonna go nuts.” 

The door swung shut, and he said, with finality, like he’d given away too much, “They told me to give you an hour.”

God it felt good to _move_, to stretch and jump without banging into a wall or a toilet. 

I warmed up with set of back handsprings - couldn’t go too crazy, space was limited. Still, I tried to lose myself in a modified routine. Layouts and twists. But I felt like a bird with its wings clipped - there was no flying in this tiny box. 

I stopped. The ache in my chest was back, gnawing and incessant. Trapped. No way out. Did Bruce assume I was dead? Were they grieving? Or putting themselves in danger trying to look for me? I wasn’t sure which option was worse. My stomach churned with bone deep anxiety and I swallowed hard on the acid creeping into my mouth. 

‘Yard time’. Somehow it made me feel worse. I looked to the door, prepared to ask Terrance to just take me back to my cell, but he was gone. Instead, Inspector LeGrande stood behind the wire and metal door, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut your recreational time short, Mr. Grayson. I’ve just received a message from the President's office. It’s time for you to serve your government. Back against the door, I assume you know the protocol by now.” 

I faced her, resolutely keeping my feet flat on the floor, fists clenched and a snarl on my lips. I was _not_ in the mood for her mind games again. Not today. 

She scoffed. “Do you think your accommodations are bleak _now_? Please, continue to defy me. You will find there is no bottom to the depths of pain in which I can make you sink.” 

I narrowed my eyes, hoping to look dangerous. I’m sure I just looked pathetic, like a wounded and cornered animal. Feral, baring its teeth. 

She tapped her foot impatiently, but there was a glint of worry in her eyes, and it suddenly dawned on me. The prison was quiet. No chatter of guards, no echo of boots. If she wanted me out of this room, why didn’t she call over some bruisers to _drag_ me out? 

Terrance said CO Davis was sick. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? 

No, Tim’s plan had _worked_ \- Without the drugs we destroyed, Enforcers were in withdrawal, probably as much a danger to themselves as others, and likely impossible to control. Which meant LeGrande was weak. At a disadvantage. 

_Maybe if I do play along, just for a little while, I might get an opportunity to get out of here._

I dropped my head and shoulders - I needed to look contrite. Defeated. I took slow, small steps over to the door and turned around. 

LeGrande was decidedly more cruel than poor Terrance, and she tightened the cuffs until I could feel them cutting into my skin. She didn’t bother with additional restraints, which was a shame, really, because I _really_ would have liked the opportunity to kick her in the face. Instead she dragged me along by the elbow and into a sparsely furnished room with large floodlights blinding me from the perimeter, then pushed me towards a chair bolted to the center. 

“Sit. Now.” 

I hesitated. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen this room before. And the smell - sharp, metallic.

_Blood._

Suddenly, my plan of ‘playing along’ didn’t seem so brilliant anymore. Whatever this was, I wasn’t going to participate willingly. I lowered my head, centered my balance, and charged at LeGrande. 

I was met with a sharp, burning pain that pulled the air from my lungs as she dug the electrodes of a taser into my side. My knees buckled and I collapsed to the floor, gasping. 

“Officer Bradley, if you would be so kind?” LeGrande tugged on my arm to hoist me up, and Terrance followed suit, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. Together, they dropped me in the chair, and Terrance set to work securing me to it with thick zip ties. 

“I’m sorry about this. I’m really sorry about this. And order’s an order, you know. I’m sorry,” he whispered behind me as he finished his task. 

I could see just beyond the lights in the room, now. I wish I hadn’t. Two large digital studio cameras, each manned by a someone obscured by the brightness. A teleprompter, angled away. And then I remembered. The room, the chair, the blood. 

Executions of so-called ‘terrorists’ were _always_ televised. Broadcast on the Global News Network for everyone to see. Proof that Luthor’s government was working tirelessly to keep its citizens ‘safe’. We used to watch them from our bunker in the early days, piggybacking a signal off the stadium’s old antenna. Lately, only Tim and Babs were keeping track. It was too demoralizing for the rest of us. 

But now I was here. The main character on the set of a real life horror show. I felt like I was suffocating. 

_No. No… it doesn’t end like this. I can’t let it end like this…_

LeGrande stepped into view, dispassionate as always. Only a slight smile, nearly sinister, gave away any indication of what she was feeling. 

Superior. Powerful. Satisfied. 

I opened my mouth to… beg? Lash out? Debate? I wasn’t sure in the fog of my mounting panic. But she stepped forward and secured a leather gag over the bottom half of my face, smile growing as she tightened it beyond necessity. 

“None of that now. Wouldn’t want your infamous ‘wit’ to interrupt our important work here today. After all, one doesn’t need to speak to be an effective lure.” 

Fluidly, she pulled Terrance’s baton from his belt and swung, connecting with the side of my face. I choked and sputtered behind the gag as blood filled my mouth. 

She crouched down to eye level, savoring her ill-gotten victory. “President Luthor and top officials in his Department of Global Peace have decided to end Batman’s reign of terror in Gotham, once and for all. _You_ are the perfect leverage necessary to bring your ‘family’ out of hiding, and directly into our net. So Officer Bradley is going to ‘rough you up’ as the saying goes, I will say some words about your upcoming Tribunal, and then we will wait with bated breath, until Bruce Wayne himself deigns to retrieve his charge. Assuming, of course, that you matter enough for him to even attempt such a daring rescue.” 

She stood and adjusted her suit, tugging her skirt down and smoothing wrinkles from her blouse. “Are we ready?” She asked the shadowy figures behind the cameras and lights. 

She signaled to Terrance, who stepped into the light with a grimace, his face pale and apologetic, and she pushed the baton into his hands. 

“Let’s begin.”


	9. Resolute

_ **** _

_ **Jason Todd** _

Five nights. Five nights of shitty sleep and gut-wrenching nightmares since Dick had gone missing, been taken. And the only thing that changed was that our ‘teams’ shuffled to accommodate the loss.

Maybe that wasn’t quite true. Damian wouldn’t stop shooting death-glares at me, like it was somehow my fault. Selina tiptoed around me like I was made of glass. The others spent any downtime we had scouring news stations and radio channels for anything that might let us know that he was still alive. But every night they were empty handed, a little closer to giving up.

And Bruce? He acted like it hadn’t happened at all. Like maybe Dick had never existed. Gave Dami his spot on our ‘terrorize the Enforcers’ team without a word.

I hadn’t realized just how much of my own ‘free time’ was filled with Dick’s banter and bad humor. Now our bunker was largely silent.

It didn’t help that we had less to do. Enforcers were becoming a rare sight on the streets. With the drug supply gone, the battalions that patrolled were practically nonexistent. Selina and Cass’ ‘shopping trips’ were more fruitful, less risky. Everyone was just sitting around with their thumbs up their asses until the Enforcers were completely gone, and then we’d make sure they were gone for good.

But all of that meant I had more time to just sit and think. To just be with feelings of fear and loss that I didn’t fucking want to address. To stew in memories that didn’t want to stay buried.

— — — — — —

_Before_

Dark. It was always dark in the weeks after the bombs finally stopped falling. So much ash had filled the sky that even high noon looked more like early dawn, with only the barest of light breaking through the perpetual clouds. We spent most of the time in the apartment, Dickie and me. Miraculously, there were no bombings in Gotham, and once the initial fallout had settled, we could almost pretend we were safe. Safe at home, safe on patrol, safe in each other’s arms.

Things seemed gloriously domestic, mundane. Even after Luthor managed to execute his power grab across the globe. Even after a curfew was established and martial law took hold, and there wasn’t any point to our ‘night jobs’. It was ok, could be ok, because I had _him_. His relentless optimism, his clinginess that I only pretended was obnoxious. And the sex. Holy _fuck_ the sex. Each time with him was fervent and intense, like nothing else existed outside of our lust, or his pleas of ‘more, more’.

We might’ve been happy like that, insulated from the horrors outside our window, waiting patiently for the world to finally die, suffocated under ash and radiation. Except things that good never last.

I remember the _exact_ moment it was clear we were fucked. Dickie and I were curled up on the sofa together. Me with a book. Him, half-dozing with his head in my lap. The startling tones of Dick’s cell phone made him lurch to wakefulness, and he answered, terse and suspicious. He listened for less than a minute, then ended the call. His face was pale, and he let out a trembling breath as he sat up.

“Jay, pack a bag. We need to leave. Now.” Dick’s playful lilt had been replaced with the harsh brusque he usually reserved for life-or-death situations.

“What happened?”

“Bruce was right. Luthor just made the announcement. The JLA, Titans, Outsiders? We’re all traitors and terrorists now. They’re coming for us. We have to get to the safehouse.”

_Fuck._

— — — — — —

“Jason. Jason!”

Tim was practically shouting at me, pulling me back to my shitty reality with a jolt. He waved me over to the computers, huffing impatiently. “‘Indoctrination Hour’ is starting soon,” he said sarcastically. “You told me you didn’t want to miss it.”

We gathered around the small screen and watched as a grainy broadcast was patched through. The opening footage, a propaganda short about the cities and nations now ‘reformed’ under Luthor’s ‘Presidency’ never changed, and the unsettling smiles of the ‘citizens’ never failed to make me shudder, regardless of how many times I saw it. Which was a lot, recently. Usually Babs and Tim handled this - keeping us informed with whatever actual ‘news’ they could parse out from the lies. But since they took Dick? I hung on every fucking sentence. Each evening that passed with no word brought me a step closer to desperation.

Finally, the ‘news’ anchor faded into the screen, and he spoke with the exact intonation he had last night. And the night before that. And the night before that, too.

“Good evening, citizens, and welcome to The Global News Network. Tonight, we bring you a breaking story from Gotham City, where our Enforcers’ fight against a local terrorist cell has made major progress. We are pleased to bring you a message from Inspector Marie LeGrande, stationed at Blackgate Penitentiary.”

I held my breath, afraid of missing a single second of whatever came next. Terrified of what might follow. Fighting the urge to look away. I had to know.

Because this was how they announced executions. The same phrasing; “we are pleased to bring you a message…” always followed by some  
pompous asshole butchering the concept of justice in a half-cocked monologue, then butchering his prisoner.

The footage cut in abruptly and Barbara gasped. I gripped the back of her chair hard enough to hear the metal creak beneath my fingers, my knuckles popping and turning white.

Fuck. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening…

In the center of the frame, Dick sat, chained down to a chair. His eyes were set in steely determination, and the bottom half of his face was obscured by a leather gag. The video quality was shit, but you could see a few fresh, angry bruises, and a cut on his temple that bled weakly.

My skin pricked and tingled with rage. They had hurt him, beaten him, tortured him.

And now they were going to kill him.

Just like every night before, an ‘Inspector’ (monster) joined the captive in the frame.

“Hello and good evening. Less than one week ago, a group of insurgents launched a simultaneous attack on two chemical production plants here in Gotham City. These were targeted because they produced the medication necessary to treat the chronic radiation poisoning so many of our Enforcers and citizens suffer with. While the leader of this terrorist cell, Bruce Wayne, remains at large, we were able to apprehend one of his top Lieutenants, Richard Grayson, formerly known as ‘Nightwing’.”

The woman, Le Grande, gestured to a man standing in the shadows, and he moved into view, brandishing a nightstick. Then she continued to lie through her fucking teeth.

“Richard Grayson is personally responsible for hundreds of civilian deaths in numerous attacks spanning months. It is my honor and duty to see that the endangerment of innocents is swiftly and justly punished.”

She nodded, then stepped back. The soldier swung wildly with his baton, connecting with Dick’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, but he did his best to shake off the blow, resolutely staring into the camera again.

Then, relentlessly, the Enforcer struck again, and again, until Dick sagged down, eyes half open and glazed. Still, it wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over until they killed him.

_No. No. I can’t fucking watch this. I won’t. I can’t watch them beat him to death. God, Dickie. I’m so sorry._

I shut my eyes, only distantly aware that I was shaking my head. Staggering over to the door, I muttered a half-excuse, something like, “I need some air,” then I tore open the hatch and I ran.

I was high in the nosebleed section by the time I came back to reality, and my heart was hammering behind my ribs, a painful reminder that I was alive and Dick wasn’t. Not anymore, not by now.

_You’re a fucking coward, Todd._

I was trembling, gasping at the frigid air, trying not to puke. I should’ve been inside with the others. Watching. Right? So at least, in some way, Dickie wouldn’t go through that alone?

But I couldn’t. Executions were always bloody, brutal affairs. Designed to intimidate those watching into submission. I didn’t want the image of his bruised, mutilated corpse to be painted on the backs of my eyelids forever. I wanted to remember him full of life, smiling, riffing on some goddamn terrible puns.

Knowing they hadn’t broken him first was small comfort. His blue eyes were full of fury and ice, and he faced whatever came next the way he faced anything; brave to the last. Not like me, too chicken shit to even watch it happen.

I tensed as I heard light footsteps behind me. Selina. Wordlessly, she sank down onto the bleachers, carefully giving me space to breathe.

“Is it done? Is he…?” I was so damn gutless I couldn’t even say the words.

_Is he dead?_

“He’s alive. Banged up, but alive.”

I almost couldn’t believe her reply. Thought maybe she was coddling me, letting me live in my fantasies for just a little while longer. I was shaking, wide-eyed. It couldn’t be true. They never let people like us live.

“Smoke?” she offered, and pulled out a small, rusty tin. She clicked it open to reveal a half-dozen hand-rolled cigarettes.

Dazed, I nodded, and she pulled out a matchbook, striking a single match and letting it flare before lighting the first one and handing it to me.

I put it to my lips, breathed deep. The familiarity steadied my hands, my voice, enough to ask, “How? What happened?”

She took a drag of her own cigarette and shook her head, “Propaganda stunt, we think. Hard to say. His trial, if you can call it that, is in a week.”

We sat together for a while, not saying anything, staring out at the torn and neglected field of Astro Turf.

She dropped the remainder of her cigarette to the ground and crushed the ember under her heel. “Bruce wants to talk to you. He’s worried you’ll head out on your own, try and bring him back.”

Nodding my head, I took a final drag, “He’s right to be worried. Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Dick would do the same for any of us. Hell, he’d outright trade his life for any of us and you know it. I have no intention of sitting on my ass in a bunker while they fucking murder him.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “For what it’s worth, Cass and Damian agree with you. Alfred, too. Bruce just doesn’t want to lose sight of the mission. Because if we can break Gotham free…”

“What? There’ll be one city on the whole fucking planet that is slightly less shitty than the others? Do you think Luthor would hesitate for a single second to blow Gotham off the goddamn map if it became some sort of free-state?” I struggled to keep my voice low. “Dick’s life is worth more than some fanatical old man’s pipe dream.”

She sighed and stood, pointedly looking away from me. “I know you love him…”

I interrupted her. “We all love him. He’s easy to love.”

“He is,” she replied, “But that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

I swallowed thickly, trying to look aloof, like I had no fucking clue what she was talking about.

“Just come back inside.” She put her hands on her hips, ignoring my obvious lie for now. “Even if you do go after him, you’ll need a plan and supplies. You won’t do anyone any good if you go off and get yourself killed.”

I nodded to myself and she walked away.

_Just hang on a little longer, Dickie. I’m coming._


	10. Chink in the Armor

_ **** _ ****

** _Dick Grayson_ **

“Annnnd we’re clear, Inspector.”

LeGrande nodded to the shadows behind the cameras in the room, dismissing them. She smiled, almost motherly, at Terrance. He was shaking badly, breathing erratically, covered in my blood spatter. Poor kid. 

My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. I tried to take stock of my injuries as LeGrande congratulated a bewildered Terrance over the ringing in my ears. 

_Definitely a concussion. Mouth’s full of blood so that’s probably not great news for my teeth. Nose is for sure busted. Maybe a zygomatic arch fracture, but it feels stable. Gonna hurt like hell tomorrow, though. You didn’t come out of this half-bad, Grayson._

My saving grace was the kid. He followed his orders, but he didn’t _want_ to. There’s a big difference between taking a beating from someone who’s in it to kill you and someone who’s just got an obligation. I’m sure if it had been Davis on the other end of the baton I’d be as close to dead as LeGrande would allow. 

I felt the gag on my face cut loose as Terrance clumsily unfastened it. Leaning forward, I spat the blood on the ground, not surprised to feel a tooth go with it. I groped around the inside of my mouth with my tongue.

_Molar, maybe? Yep. Top one. Hopefully that broken face isn’t worse than I thought._

LeGrande tutted in disgust. “Clean that up, Officer Bradley. Then take him back to his cell. He can stay there until the Tribunal. I don’t see any reason for recreational time.” Her heels clipped sharply as she left the room. 

“Oh God. Oh man. I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry…” now that we were alone, Terrance was falling apart. 

“Hey. Look at me.” I forced a smile, hoping it would be more congenial than terrifying, even with the blood. Terrance met my eyes with a wide stare, horrified. I did my best to sound reassuring - he was just a kid, after all. “You’re ok. You did what you had to, and we’re both alive. It’s going to be fine.”

“They’re going to kill you.” He seemed so small when he spoke, drowning in the truth of his words. 

“Yeah. They are.” What else could I say? It wouldn’t help anyone to lie. 

“Then it’s not going to be _fine_.” He clenched his fists, voice taking on a hard edge. 

“No. I guess not.”

“Is it true? What Inspector LeGrande said about you?” He crouched down and started to cut the plastic ties that kept me held in place. 

“It’s an… exaggeration. It wasn’t medicine, it was drugs used to control the Enforcers. And we didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt…” I tried to explain without rambling, but my brain felt like mush, and the room seemed to sway slightly. 

“Not that part. They always make stuff like that up. I meant… is it true you were Nightwing?” He finished his work and stood, eyeing me critically. 

“Yeah,” I replied, somber and unsure of where this was heading. “That part’s true.” 

He nodded, and the silence stretched on. I gripped the back of the chair with my cuffed hands, doing my best not to fall on the floor as the swaying I felt became an honest-to-God spin. I closed my eyes. 

“Th… Thank you,” he stammered. “I mean, you probably don’t remember, but you saved my mom, before the War. She OD’d in an alley. You gave her narcan, CPR, stayed with her ‘til the paramedics came. Then she got some grant for rehab. That was you, too. Wasn’t it?” 

I strained the limits of my memory, but even if I _hadn’t_ been beaten half-senseless, it was almost six years ago. Maybe longer. 

He must’ve noticed my knitted brow, my deep concentration as I grabbed for a past that just kept slipping through my fingers. “It’s ok. Nightwing was... I mean, _you_ were a hero. You probably saved a lot of people. All in a day’s work, right?”

He helped me to my feet, steadying me as much as he could against his small frame. I took a deep breath, fighting back the nausea so I could thank him for the help. Then it hit me. 

“Fae, or Faith? The alley off of Erdman Avenue?” 

His face lit up and he beamed up at me. “Yeah! You remember! She was a good mom. The best mom, after she got back from rehab.” His face fell with an all-too-familiar grief. “I loved her a lot.” 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. 

“Not your fault. She went for a job interview in New York. Then the bombings… she didn’t come back.” He sniffled a bit, then motioned to the door, clearly done talking about it. 

We trudged back to my cell quietly, not wanting our conversation to be overheard and punished. I carried my own weight as much as I could, but most of my efforts went into not puking on his shoes. 

Finally, we made it back, and he helped me flop down on my bare cot, then unlocked the cuffs. Absently, I rubbed my wrists, and he turned to leave. 

“It’s not right, you know?” He spoke with his back to me, but I could hear that he was on the verge of tears. “What they’re gonna do to you. The lies they’re telling about you. It’s not right. Do you think your family is gonna try and get you out? Before they… you know?” 

Wincing, I laid down and answered, “I don’t know.”

_I hope not. I hope they keep themselves as far away as they can. Keep themselves safe. _

He didn’t respond, just nodded slowly and shut the door. I couldn’t fight anymore, and I slipped beneath the waves of fatigue and sleep.

— — — — — 

_Before_

”What the hell happened?”

After “The Resolution” was announced, Jason and I made it to our ‘new home’ without any trouble. It was immediately clear the others weren’t so lucky. Cass and Alfred were holding onto Tim, who was thrashing wildly on a cot, screaming. 

“They got to him before I could make the call. He was in a meeting at Wayne Tower. A team of Enforcers stormed the board room, Tim took shrapnel. Managed to make it here before the adrenaline wore off.” Bruce appeared calm, but I could see from the way his eyes were fixed on Tim, shining a bit too much, that nothing could be farther from the truth. 

He was terrified. 

“What can I do?” I put my hand on his shoulder. He was blaming himself, like he always did. Probably thinking he should have called Tim first, or maybe gone to get him personally. 

“Help him calm down. Alfred has his work cut out for him. I need to check the others’ status.” 

I nodded, then leaned into Jason, whispering, “Keep an eye on Bruce. He’s not ok.” 

Jason rolled his eyes and shrugged, but followed Bruce anyway. I’m sure he was pissed about having to babysit a fully grown man, but I didn’t care. I had work to do. 

I swallowed hard on my rising nausea as I gingerly approached the cot, not wanting to startle anyone. The scene was gruesome. Half of Tim’s face was covered in blood, and Alfred was doing his best to keep pressure on the wound to stem the tide. 

The ‘wound’… it seemed an inadequate word. A massive laceration stretched from his cheek up into the remains of his eye. Shards of glass poked out at random. I took a steadying breath. I would only make things worse for Tim if he saw how horrified I was. 

I nodded to Cass, and she moved aside, taking over for Alfred and giving me space to crouch near Tim’s head. I ran my fingers through his hair gently, combing out more bits of glass. Panicked, he looked up at me. 

“Hey Timmy. You’re ok. You’re doing great. Alfred’s working on patching you up. All you have to do is just be still, yeah?” 

He shuddered, but settled and grabbed for my other hand, squeezing hard. “Hurts.” 

Nodding, I did my best to give him a reassuring smile. “Won’t be much longer, now. I can see Alfred getting some of the ‘good stuff’ ready for you. When you wake up, you’ll be all set. Back to kicking ass and taking names.”

“No,” he tried to shake his head, but Cass held fast, “its bad. I can tell it’s bad.” 

I felt his grip on my hand relax as Alfred found a vein and pushed in a hefty dose of sedative. He looked up at me once Tim was out, his face grim, “I won’t be able to salvage the eye. And the damage to his face is extensive…”

“I know.” I sighed. It had only been a few hours since Lex’s proclamation and we were already taking casualties. Tim needed a hospital, a facial surgeon, an opthamologist. Not an (admittedly skilled) army medic and the barest of supplies. “What do you need me to do?” 

“At present? Nothing. I believe Miss Cassandra and I can manage. Thank you.” Alfred started setting out his supplies, and I stepped back, suddenly woozy. Eye injuries were _not_ my forte. 

“I’m going to make a perimeter check. Make sure we weren’t followed, see if any of the others are in the area,” I announced to no one in particular. 

Jason grabbed my wrist before I could make it to the door. “Want company?” 

“No. Stay with Bruce.” I shook my arm free and didn’t look back at his worried and angry expression as I slipped out of the heavy door and into the tunnel. 

Air. I needed air. My chest burned like I couldn’t breathe. I made it as far as the concourse before I felt like I was going to puke. So I diverted to the derelict bathrooms and clutched the only sink that wasn’t broken, gasping and gulping. I dug my fingers into the porcelain, fighting back against the panic attack threatening to climb out of my throat. 

_Keep it together. Keep it together…_

Suddenly, I heard heavy boots outside the bathroom, and the defensive, trained part of my brain took over, crushing my mounting anxiety. I tucked myself away behind a stall door, ready to strike out…

“You in here, Goldie?” 

The familiar voice washed over me, and I sagged against the wall in relief. “Shit, Jason. You scared the hell out of me.” I peeked out from behind my cover, only to be greeted by a very pissed off expression. 

“Says the guy who ran off into enemy territory without telling anyone where he was going.” He stepped over to me and placed his hand on the side of my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “You ok?” 

I leaned into the contact, letting it ground me. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Tim’s bad off. We haven’t heard from Dami, Babs, Duke, _or_ Steph. And this is just the beginning. It’s only going to get worse…”

To my surprise he chuckled, “I didn’t know you were even _capable_ of pessimism.” He leaned in and claimed a surprisingly tender kiss. “We’ve got each other. We can take whatever the fuck comes next.”

— — — — —

I tried to open my eyes, but only one of them complied. The other was swollen shut. In spite of the absolutely excruciating headache, I sat up, surprised to see three meal trays lined up on the floor.

_Guess I was out a while _

Slowly, I picked up the first one, planning on parsing out whatever was still edible and trying to work my way through it. Tucked under the sandwich was a small, folded piece of paper. I opened it and read the messy scrawl.

“I can’t let them kill you. You’re one of the good guys. I’m going to get you out. Just be ready. -T” 

_Fuck. The kid’s going to get himself killed. Get us both killed._

I knew from experience that Blackgate was a fortress. Escape attempts were suicide missions. And that was before it turned into a nightmarish gulag. 

Whatever the kid had planned… we were screwed. Best I could do was try and protect him from the hell that came next. I crumpled the note in my fist, then flushed it. The last thing I needed was for someone to be tipped off to Terrance’s half-baked plan. 

_Here’s hoping he chickens out. Because if not, execution will be the least of my worries. _


	11. Plans

** __ ** __

_ **Jason Todd** _

“You have exactly 10 seconds to tell me what the plan is to stop those fuckers from killing Dickie before I take matters into my own hands, Bruce.”

That was probably not the best way for me to start a conversation, but I’ve never been one for subtlety. Or sugarcoating. 

“Sit down, Jason.” Bruce steepled his hands in front of him and looked at me, unfazed. 

“I’ll stand.” There was no way I was going to take a seat and have some drawn-out, rational discussion while Dick was in danger. While they hurt him, put their fucking _hands_ on him… 

Made me sick to even think about it. 

“We _will_ bring him back. On that you have my word. But the situation is more complex than you realize. We can’t move until the time is right.” Bruce kept his voice even and level, like he was soothing a wild animal. Maybe he was. 

“So, what?” I shook my head angrily, suppressing the urge to lay him out right there. “We sit around doing fuck all until _you_ decide it’s go time? Every single goddamn day he’s locked up with those sadistic freaks is a day too long.”

“And you know as well as any of us do, Dick can handle it. He’s far more capable than you’re giving him credit for.” Bruce stood, his own anger seeping out of the cracks of his solid, stony foundation. “Has it occurred to you that he may already have his _own_ escape plan in motion? And any attempts on our part to rescue him may jeopardize his chances at survival? Of course not. We can’t act on impulse, Jason. It was dangerous before, it’s _deadly_ now.” 

Eye to eye, we stood inches apart, fiery rage between us. 

“There’s more to it, too.” Babs cut in, cautiously attempting to lance the growing tension. “We _have_ to wait, Jason. Until _after_ the Tribunal.”

“Why!?” I was absolutely incensed. “That’s a _week_ that he has to live through whatever torture they have lined up for him.” 

_Another week that he has to sit alone and believe that I’m not coming for him._

Bruce reached out to put a steadying hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away. He narrowed his eyes before answering, “Tribunals are a propaganda tactic. Detainees are moved to a local courthouse to give the appearance of an actual legal proceeding. Instead, any misdeeds or mistakes are exaggerated into horrible criminal acts, justifying capital punishment. But the name ‘Nightwing’ still commands a significant amount of respect from citizens and heroes alike.” 

I contorted my face into an expression that was half confused, half furious. “You’d better get to the point soon, Old Man. I’m running out of patience.” 

“You want it simple? Fine.” Bruce was at the end of his rope too, and everyone else in the bunker winced as he deepened his voice into a growl. “Do you really think we’re the only group fighting against Luthor? Nightwing’s Tribunal will be a rallying cry. None of the heroes left on Earth will stand idly by while he’s painted as a villain and then executed. A united front is the only chance we have at wresting control of the world back from Lex Luthor.” 

“So that’s the plan?” Now I really _did _feel sick. “You use him for your _own_ little propaganda show and hope we get to him before they string up his mutilated body for the world to gawk at? And if he escapes _before_ his debut as your political pawn?”

“Then we all breathe easier and carry on. But if he doesn’t, if he _can’t_, we’ll make sure whatever they put him through _means_ something.” Bruce sat down again, with finality, and turned away, engrossing himself in some schematic. 

Tim took that as his cue to chime in, “For what it’s worth? From a tactical standpoint, the Tribunal’s going to be the only time we’ll have enough access to him to mount _any_ sort of useful rescue. Blackgate is too heavily guarded. And with most of the Enforcers down for the count after our last play, we can use the time between now and then to get supplies and get _ready_. It’s the only strategy that works. Anything else is suicide.”

I shook my head. “I fucking hate this.” 

All I could think about was Dickie hurt, alone, scared…

Who was I kidding? He had more guts than brains, and he was no slouch in that department, either. He was probably pissed as hell.

Didn’t mean I was any less worried. 

Fuck. Leave it to Dickie to turn me into a goddamn softie.

— — — —- — — 

_Before_

Forty-nine hours we spent, huddled in Dick’s ugly-ass bathroom, after the bombings in New York and DC. Two days of vacillating between obsessively checking our phones for updates and distracting each other from panic as best we could - ‘anything goes’ style. Gotham was a major city, after all. It was only a matter of time before we would end up vaporized, enveloped in fire and pain. But that particular end never materialized.

As the second day came to a close, our cells pinged simultaneously - an update from local Emergency Services. 

“Outdoor radiation levels in Gotham City and surrounding areas have reduced to safe levels. Shelter-in-place precautions are no longer in effect.” 

Dick grinned and sighed in relief. Leave it to him to be optimistic after Armageddon. But his good mood wouldn’t last. We cracked open the bathroom door and were greeted by pervasive shadows that filled the apartment. The windows were coated in thick, gray dust. His smile turned to ash as our new reality settled in. It really was the end of the fucking world. At least as far as we knew it. 

He opened a chalky window and peered out. It was nearly noon, but you’d never know it looking at the sky. Instead of bright sunlight, or the unrelenting overcast that Gotham pollution often caused, it was eerily dark. Like twilight, with the barest of light peeking through from the edges of the horizon, reflecting back against clouds of soot. 

I could hear is breath hitching in sobs he was trying to swallow as he watched other horrified people venturing outside, their feet kicking up clouds of powder. It would have looked peaceful, like fresh snow, if it weren’t for the terror filled sobs that echoed in the streets. 

Dick tried to hide it, but he was shaking. I reached out to him, pulled him back against my chest, surprised to feel him relax into the embrace. I hadn’t held out any hope that our tryst would continue if we had the misfortune of surviving the apocalypse. I was sure it was nothing more than desperation and fear driving him to find a physical release. But with him in my arms, pressed against me, boneless and trusting? 

Maybe that’s what _home_ felt like. If not, it was the closest I’d ever gotten. I squeezed hard, suddenly terrified of _losing_ that feeling, losing _him_. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t move, and I was distantly aware I was digging my fingers into his arms. 

He didn’t protest. Instead, he whispered, low and reassuring, “I know Jay. I’m scared, too.”

— — — —- — — 

“We have six days before Dick is taken before the ‘Tribunal’.” Babs unrolled our only map and uncapped a red marker. “Our intel about the site of the ‘trial’ is limited, but from previous broadcasts on the GNN we know it’ll be a local courthouse, probably whichever makes for a better, more recognizable backdrop.” She drew three neat circles and tapped the pen shut. “It could be any one of these, though it’ll most likely be the Eastside District Court building. It’s closest to Blackgate and they won’t want to transport him farther than necessary.”

I was only half paying attention to whatever mind-numbing briefing they had cooked up. It wasn’t relevant to me. There was no fucking way I was going to let Dickie rot in Blackgate so that Bruce could use him. Again. 

While the others were engrossed in their scheming, I was packing a bag. Some first aid supplies, food, water and the like. I was going after him whether Bruce approved or not. I caught Damian glaring at me, arms crossed, so I shot him a look that I hoped said ‘mind your own fucking business’. Undeterred, he broke away from the group and strode over to me, haughty and arrogant. 

“What are you doing, Todd?” He kept his voice low and glanced over his shoulder, checking to see that we weren’t overheard. 

“I’m going out.” Short and simple. And not a lie. 

“You’re planning to rescue Grayson. I want in. If only to save him from your feebleminded bunglings.” He peered into my bag and sneered. “Is _that_ all you’re bringing?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Why?” Not like I actually cared. 

“Unlike _some_ people, I actually watched the _entirety_ of Grayson’s abuse.” He frowned at me, letting the razor sharp words cut before continuing. “You seem to be laboring under the delusion that he will be able to be an equal partner in his escape. Given the extent of his injuries, and the severe concussion he likely sustained, he will be dead weight, and will require more first aid than…” he pulled out my meager supplies and scoffed, “Six gauze pads and some tape? Is this a serious rescue attempt or just a show of bravado, Todd?” 

“Keep your fucking voice down,” I hissed. I wanted to be pissed at him, but he was _right_. I hadn’t even considered that Dick would be hurt too bad to help. That maybe they beat him enough that he was already dying…

_Keep your shit together, Todd._

“Tt. I should cripple you to keep you from endangering Grayson further.” Damian tilted his head, as if sizing me up. “However, I have no intention of allowing those miscreants to lay their hands on him again, and I will require assistance to bring him home. You will be adequate.”

“Good to know you think so highly of me, brat.” I rolled my eyes, stuffing any feelings of fear as deep as they would go, “We leave tonight, got it?” 

“No. Tomorrow. First light. I’ll gather a better complement of supplies this evening.” He spared me a final look before rejoining the others. “I have faith that Grayson’s fortitude will last at least that long.” 

_Please, God. Let him last that long. _

_Because if he doesn’t… can’t…_

_I don’t think I can, either. _


	12. Fight or Flight

** _Dick Grayson_ **

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Somewhere over the course of the day, the faucet at the tiny metal sink in the corner of the cell had started leaking. The slow, hollow sound of each drop striking the stainless steel by the drain only made the pounding in my head worse. 

Or maybe it was the fact that I had spent most of the day huddled by the toilet, swinging back and forth between whatever passed for sleep in my foggy brain and vomiting violently. 

If I hadn’t felt so sick I might’ve been concerned that the trays of food had stopped slipping in through the slot in the door. Alarmed that there weren’t sounds of any kind coming from the hallway. But the churning, persistent nausea and blinding headache drowned out any other thoughts. And the room just wouldn’t stop spinning. 

I couldn’t keep track of how long I sat there, wedged between the cot and the toilet, braced against the wall in a feeble attempt to stop the vertigo, but by the time I felt well enough to lay back down, my legs were heavy and numb. 

And of course, it was at that precise moment that I heard the sound of a baton banging against metal - someone harshly knocking at my door. 

I suppressed a shudder of fear when the voice called out, “Shower time, Princess!”

Davis was back. Fuck. 

I tried to stand, but the floor beneath my feet swayed, and I felt like I was back on one of Bruce’s yachts, from before. Of course, I always ended up puking expensive party food off the stern. So yeah, exactly like that. 

“You gonna keep me waiting all day? Or do I have to come in there and ‘persuade’ you?” Davis was banging again, louder this time. The clanging sound was like an ice pick in my temple. Wincing, I managed to back up to the door and slip my hands through the slot. 

“Took you long enough,” he muttered as he locked cuffs into place. 

I stumbled forward and out of the way as the cell door swung open. Tentatively, I stepped into the hall, and Davis went about the familiar business of completing my restraints. Terrance stood nearby, eyes fixed on the floor, conspicuously nervous. 

_Great. This ‘jail break’ is happening now. Of course it is, when I can barely walk straight._

For once, I was actually grateful for Davis’ sharp grip on my shoulder as he marched me down the corridor. I was able to close my eyes and make the floor stay put. The reprieve was brief. He shoved me into the mildewy tile shower room and I fell to the floor as the world tilted on its axis again. 

With an unnecessary kick to my thigh, he unshackled me and barked the order, “Strip. You’ve only got 5 minutes. Make ‘em count.” 

Behind him, Terrance gave a wide-eyed nod. An unmissable, if amateur gesture that said, “_Now_.”

“No.” I got to my feet, leaned into my training, counting on it to keep me level even if the room wasn’t. It was go time, whether I liked it or not. 

“What the fuck d’you say?” A red, angry blush creeped up Davis’ neck and he pulled his baton from its loop on his belt, smacking it against his hand in an attempt to seem menacing. 

I grabbed for his weapon, a feint that left him wide open. Before he could wrench his baton away, I drove the heel of my palm up, just under his chin. His head snapped back and he dropped to the floor with a satisfying thud. 

I leaned against the wall, fighting against the dizziness that threatened pull me down with Davis. Trembling, Terrance grabbed my shoulders and shook me. The jarring only made matters worse, and I managed to _just_ turn my head enough to avoid puking down the front of his uniform. 

He made a face - not disgusted, but somewhere between sympathetic and terrified. “Oh man. Are you sick? Maybe we shouldn’t do this today.” 

A breathless laugh bubbled up from my chest, and I tapped Davis limp arm with my foot. “I think it might be a _little_ too late for a do-over.” 

“Right. Right. What do we do now? Shit, what do we do? ” He was spiraling, panicking. 

_Fantastic. We’re about six seconds in to his ‘rescue plan’ and he’s already looking to me to get us out of this mess._

“Hey,” I crouched a little to make eye contact, get his attention, “look at me. You’re ok. We’ve got options. If you want to scrap the whole thing, you can radio LeGrande and tell her I attacked Davis. You _technically_ haven’t done anything wrong yet.” 

He shook his head rapidly, “No. No I won’t do that. I won’t let them kill you.”

“Ok.” I had to admire the kid. He was braver than some of the capes I knew. “Then we’re going to have to drag Davis out of sight and cuff him to the pipes. And find something to keep him from yelling for help when he comes to.” 

Frantically, he nodded, and tried to tug on Davis’ bulk by himself. Of course, he didn't budge. I grabbed under an arm and told Terrance to take the other. It took some doing, but we got Davis behind a partition, and I slid to the floor while the kid finished up. 

“Seriously, man, are you going to be ok? You look… bad. Real bad.” It took Terrance three attempts to fight against the shaking in his hands and lock the cuffs around Davis’ wrists. 

“Thanks,” I managed to quip, hoping to get the kid to bring his blind terror back down to a mild panic, “Just a concussion. Not my first. If I’m lucky, it won’t be my last, either.” 

My humor did _not_ have its intended effect, and Terrance’s eyes brimmed over with tears, “_I_ did that to you. It’s my fault. Oh God, what did I do, it’s my fault…”

“Terrance,” I said, going for stern this time, “You have to keep it together, yeah? It’s the only way we make it through this. I _need _you. Ok?” 

He did his best to take in a full breath. “Ok. Ok. You’re right. Sorry…”

“You’re alright. We’ve got this. Our first stop has to be the security hub. We need to disable cameras and perimeter monitors or we won’t make it past the front door.” I could already tell this plan was a bust, as the kids eyes bulged in fear. He clearly wasn’t absorbing a thing. 

_Make it simpler, Grayson, because Davis is going to wake up any minute now. Then all the plausible deniability Terrance has will be gone, and he’s going to need that if, no when this goes South._

“All I need you to do is pretend like you have orders to transport me somewhere and follow my lead. I’m pretty sure I remember where everything is. I did a stint undercover here years ago.” I paused, letting the information wash over him, waiting for him to meet my gaze. “Sound good?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard and bobbed his head, then helped pull me to my feet. 

“You’re going to have to cuff me. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t. Just leave them a little loose and we’ll be ready to roll.” 

I turned around and rested my forehead on the tile wall with my hands behind my back, pawing through memories of training to find something, _anything_ that might steady me, get me ready for the fight that was bound to come. But I all I could find were reminders of exactly how cruel this new government could be when people got _caught_.

— — — — — —

_Before_

Our family had been hunkered down for twelve hours after ‘The Resolution’ when something became painfully clear.

Steph and Duke weren’t coming. They didn’t make it. 

The reality settled over all of us like a pall. Tim had to be sedated again to keep him from pulling tenuously held stitches in his anguish. Before he slipped into unconsciousness a second time, he begged for someone, anyone, to try and find her. 

I promised him I would, even as Bruce scowled at me. 

“It isn’t _safe_ to go searching, Dick,” he reasoned, “we can’t afford more casualties. If Steph and Duke aren’t here, it’s likely that they are dead. A fact that will _not_ be changed by you, jeopardizing yourself and our position. Right now, you’re thinking with your heart, not your head. And you’re going to get us all _killed_” 

I clenched my fists, dug my nails into my palms. Now was _not_ the time to lose my temper, but Bruce was unequivocally _wrong_. I sucked a breath through my teeth, preparing to argue, but before I could even start my rant, Jason stepped to my side, arms over his chest, scowling. 

“We are going out to look for Steph and Duke. Right. Now. I’d like to see you try and stop us, _Old Man_.” 

I could see Bruce calculating, considering behind his ice cold expression. He relented. “Fine. Be quick. No unnecessary risks.” 

Without another word, Jason grabbed my by my sleeve and tugged me out of the door of our bunker and into the echoey tunnels. 

“Hey, thanks for that.” Maybe it wasn’t the best time for a heartfelt conversation, but I couldn’t let the moment pass without letting him know I appreciated it. Appreciated _him_.

“Don’t sweat it. I just get tired of him picking on you and everybody else standing around saying jack shit. Nine times out of ten, _he’s_ the asshole. Somebody’s gotta have the balls to tell him.” He pulled me into an awkward, abrupt hug, then stepped away, looking guilty as he threw a glance over his shoulder. “So what’s the plan, Dickiebird.” 

I sighed and shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, focus on the task at hand. “We should check on Steph first. Her apartment’s only a few blocks away, and it’ll give us a chance to get our bearings up there. You have to figure they’ll have patrols looking for us by now. Duke’s all the way out by Gotham State, it’ll take some doing to get over there, but once we get Steph we’ll have numbers on our side.” 

Jason smiled. “You lead the way, I'll watch your six.” 

We wound our way out of the tunnels and slunk through the long shadows creeping out of the coming dusk. I’d been right, there were patrols and tactical vans _everywhere_, and we did our best to keep our heads down and blend into the background as we walked, slowly and deliberately, to Steph’s building. 

I stopped short on the sidewalk outside of the converted row home, and Jason ran into my back, muttering, “What the hell?!” 

I was frozen. Couldn’t speak. Shaking my head in abject horror. It wasn’t long before Jason saw it too, and breathed out a sickened, “Oh fuck.” 

Steph’s bloodied body dangled from a rope out of the third floor window. She was half-dressed in her Spoiler suit, with a sign tacked to her chest that read “Terrorist”. 

We were both rooted to the spot with rage and anguish. We almost missed the sound of a tactical van pulling up behind us. 

“Fuck! We’ve gotta _move_!” Jason screamed. 

It took me less than a second to register what he had said, but Enforcers were already loading out of the back, armed to the teeth and _pissed_. 

The lead tactical officer spoke first. “It’s after curfew, boys. Let’s see some ID.” 

“Fuck off, _bootlicker_.” Jason brandished his middle fingers and we both took off at a sprint, ducking into an alley and scrambling up the fire escape to the roof. 

Already breathless, system flooded with adrenaline, Jason panted, “We can lose them in Robinson Park, double back home.”

“No,” I protested, “what about Duke?

Jason shook his head, “You saw what they did. No way Duke’s alive. We have to save our own hides, now.” 

I wasn’t sure if I agreed or not, or if I even answered Jason before we set off again into a blind run, leaping across rooftops before climbing down and cutting through the park. I just remember thinking, over and over again, like a macabre mantra:

_“I’m so sorry, Duke. I’m so sorry” _

— — — — — —

I almost couldn’t believe how few guards there were in a detention center this large. That’s not to say I wasn’t _grateful_, but it was almost suspiciously easy to get to the security hub at the center of the prison. Terrance played his part well, dragging me along and scowling. I just had to hope nobody saw how badly his hands were shaking, how his body posture screamed our intentions.

“The Bubble”. That’s what they called the reinforced glass room where the CCTV images of each cell were lined up on a block of tiny screens. Inside, two guards chatted jovially - an animated conversation that looked like the recounting of a very one-sided fight. 

I nodded to Terrance and slipped off the loose cuffs. It was now or never time. 

I wrenched the door open, and without a quip I grabbed the collar of the closest guards shirt, whipping his face into my forehead and feeling his nose crunch against it. I tossed his limp body to the side and went for Bad Guy No. 2. 

There was no finesse to this fight - my broken equilibrium wouldn’t allow it. So I did my best to channel Jason’s brawler style and make every hit count. I ducked below a hastily thrown punch and landed a hook of my own under his ear. He staggered back, dazed. 

_Damn. That should’ve been a knockout. I’m off my game._

I swung again, connecting with his jaw, then his temple. Finally, he collapsed to the floor. I shut my eyes tight and grabbed the back of a chair. It was _not_ a good time to black out, but the exertion was wreaking havoc on my concussed brain, and there was an unsettling, swirling darkness creeping into my periphery. 

“You alright, man? What do we do now?” The kids voice cracked and trembled. He was holding it together, but barely. 

I opened my eyes and glanced at the screens. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it, but I was horrified nonetheless. The video footage flitted between feeds from all of the cells, most of them _occupied_. Breathless, not looking away, I asked Terrance, “How many prisoners _are_ there?” 

“Dunno. Couple dozen, I guess,” he replied. “Why?” 

I would have answered, something heroic sounding like ‘_we can’t leave them here_’ or ‘_I won’t retreat while innocents suffer’_, but my attention faltered as the image of one detainee in particular popped onto the screen. A disbelieving laugh burbled out of my throat as I studied the boy in cell number 28. 

He was looking worse for wear, thinner than I remembered, and was mumbling to himself, but it was unmistakably him. _Duke_. I swallowed hard and turned to face Terrance.

“Sorry, buddy. Change of plans.”


	13. Duty

** _Jason Todd_ **

Ice cold wind whipped off of Gotham Bay, and my face ached as Damian and I stood on the rocky shoreline, staring straight ahead. From here, only three miles of frigid, polluted water stood between us and Blackgate Penitentiary. Between me and Dickie. Assuming he was still alive.

_Please, fuck, let him still be alive._

We had managed to slip out of the bunker undetected in the small hours of the morning. The others had stayed up late, plotting Dick’s rescue at the Tribunal, and were still sleeping. Gotham was deserted that early - the fear of the Enforcers’ wrath still kept people inside during curfew hours, even if there were only a handful left that seemed immune to the loss of the drugs. A fact we used to our advantage as we scoped out our options for crossing the brackish, choppy expanse. 

Swimming was out of the question. The water was as close to freezing as it could be without becoming solid, and it still harbored most of the radioactive runoff, making it a deadly, poisonous swill. 

“There are likely still boats in the marina,” Damian suggested, “though whether any are dirigible remains to be seen.” He pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned along the coast. Which was for the best, really, because he might have killed me for the exaggerated eye roll I gave him. 

_What a pretentious, insufferable… _

“I’ve found a skiff that will be acceptable. The sail appears largely intact, and it is small enough that we have a better chance at avoiding detection.” He lowered his binoculars and tucked them back into his rucksack. 

“So your plan is to take a sailboat, in broad daylight, and mosey up to Blackgate. You gonna ask the guards to just _give_ us Dick, too? Maybe if you say ‘pretty please’ they’ll be more than happy to help us out. Or maybe we should have done this at _night_, like I said.” I had a gnawing feeling that this was all going to go sideways fast. But I couldn’t pay attention to it - Damian had already set a brusque pace toward the marina. 

Clambering over the slippery rocks on the shore was harder than I thought it would be, but it was better than traipsing through the streets on the off chance we’d be spotted by one of the few remaining Enforcers who would be more than happy to load us with bullets and leave our bodies for the seagulls. Only a mile to reach the docked boats, but it took us nearly half an hour. By then the wind had died down and the usual sickly, thick mist rolled in. 

I could just make out Damian’s face a few paces ahead of me. He was sporting a smug smile and I swallowed the urge to wipe it off his face. “Perhaps one day you will learn not to doubt me, Todd. I anticipated the fog would provide the necessary cover.”

“Sure you did,” I snarked. _Asshole._

Probably for the best, Damian ignored me, and set about inspecting the boat. I stood on the dock, only narrowly resisting the impulse to unmoor the damn thing and set him adrift. Hell, if I had a better plan to rescue Dickie, I _might’ve_. But this was a two-man job, at _least_, and as much as I hated it, I _needed_ Damian. 

After the ‘skiff’ (as he insisted on calling it) passed his inspection, I pulled the rope from the cleat and we set off at a snail's pace, with Damian cursing and adjusting the sails. Eventually we caught enough of a breeze to start moving forward, and some part of me was grateful for the outboard motor - we’d need that once we had Dickie with us. But for now, stealth was the name of the game. 

Slowly, we headed toward the floodlights on the top of a turret on the edges of Blackgate Island. I tried to focus on what was coming next: angry Enforcers with M16s and high ground. But all I could do, as we bobbed along, enveloped in the haze, was think about Dick, and pray we weren’t too late.

— — — — —

_Before_

I thought that nuclear Armageddon would have _changed_ things, but as soon as the last bomb fell, and the all-clear alert was broadcast, people were out in the streets, robbing and hurting each other, looting and rioting. Business as usual. Naturally, Nightwing and Red Hood were back on the streets, too, trying to keep society from collapsing in on itself.

The work was more tedious than before. It was hard to sort out the difference between the bad and the _desperate_, but we did what we could, and came home every morning caked in sweat and fallout dust. 

Even post-patrol showers were laborious. Dick and I had to take turns stripping off our suits under a scalding spray, then scrubbing down with a special, two step soap designed to prevent chronic radiation poisoning. 

After a few weeks, I could see how _helpless_ Dick felt when we came back home. Another difficult night. More people hacking and choking in the streets, covered in soot that the government assured us was ‘safe’. He wanted, or maybe _needed_ to save them all. The impossibility of it was grinding him into the ground. Or at least that’s why I _thought_ he collapsed into bed after his shower. 

Which is probably why I jumped down his throat when I walked in on him in the bathroom, hours later, to find him bandaging large swatches of _burns_ all over his torso, some of them blistering and peeling.

“What the _fuck_ happened?!” I demanded as I was fantasizing about _slowly_ killing whoever did this to him. Because it looked damned intentional, and I couldn’t remember when he would have gotten an injury like that. The edges of the burns were sharp, crisp demarcations between the raised, red patches and healthy skin. 

He was stunned at first, grappling with anger at the intrusion and shame at having been caught. Then he lowered his head, shaking it slowly, “Remember when I ripped my suit the other day? Looks like the dust is way more radioactive than they let on.” He shrugged, and let me put the rest of the pieces together. 

The burns were in the exact shape of the tears in his suit. The blistering, purple rash was from the _radiation_, places where that fucking ash had rubbed into his skin after a looter got a lucky shot and pushed him through a store window. Panic flooded into my chest and my next thought almost brought me to my knees. 

_Fuck. Is he dying?_

I stood in the bathroom, mouth agape, trying to slap together my limited knowledge of fallout. “This is bad. This is really bad. How long were you planning on fucking _hiding_ this?!”

Leave it to me to fall back on rage as a proxy for bone-deep terror. 

But Dick always seemed to see right through me. “Relax, Jay. You worry too much. Looks worse than it is. Promise. They're not that deep, they’ll heal.” 

He reached for my hand and tugged on my arm, pulling me into a tender, if brief, kiss. I tried to let my lips linger on his, but he drew away and went back to taping bandages down over the weeping skin. 

“Damnit, Dickie. At least let me _help_ you.” I knelt down beside him and he lifted his arm, giving me access to the burn that stretched around to his back. I smoothed the tape down and he winced, but said nothing. 

“Maybe we should take a few days off, let this clear up,” I suggested. “Besides, my helmet filters shit out, but you’ve been _breathing_ that goddamn ash for weeks. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He just shrugged, as if he had already thought of that and _accepted_ it. My heart sank into my stomach. 

“Those people out there?” He stood, then walked into the bedroom and leaned on the window sill. “They’ve got _nothing_, Jay. They can’t even go _outside_ without getting sick. They’re scared and hopeless - I have to help them, no matter what it costs.” 

_Self-sacrificing asshole._

I stormed after him, spinning him around to face me, suddenly angry again. “What do you think _I_ would have, if you died?! Nothing! I’d have fucking _nothing_, Dick! We only have each other. I can’t lose you!” 

Closing his eyes, he turned away. “I’m sorry, Jason. But I can’t just sit back and watch the world tear itself apart. Not when I can _do_ something about it.” 

“Fuck! Open your eyes, Dick!” I raged at him, even though I knew my anger would only make him more resolute. “The world is _already_ destroyed! And there is nothing out there that’s worth destroying yourself for.” Before he could argue, I cupped his cheek in my hand stroking his soft skin, then swept him into a kiss that I hoped would convey everything: desperation, sorrow, fear. And love. Always love. 

Pulling back, he looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “I can’t stop fighting for them. I _won’t_. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” I nodded sadly, resigned and too tired to argue any more. “I know.”

— — — — — 

Our approach to Blackgate Island was nothing short of eerie, and when the hull of our boat scraped against the shore, it was very clear the stone security towers were deserted. I had started to doubt that Dick was even _here_ when I heard a commotion at the front gate. Damian and I crouched low and moved quickly against the wall, inching our way to the entrance.

We couldn’t make out faces at first - it was just an amorphous group of thin figures, urged on by a gentle, echoing voice. I crept forward, even as Damian hissed at me to stay still. I had to see. Had to know. 

I was only about ten feet away when I saw them clearly - a little over a dozen people, skeletal and bruised, being led into the mist by an impossibly familiar face. 

Suddenly, I recognized who it was through the distortion and clambering, and I was drowning in relief. 

“Dick!” I called out into the fog. 

“Jay?” He replied, and then signaled to whoever was following him, “This way!” 

Blindly, I ran towards him, scrambling against the mossy stones beneath my feet. Damian deftly followed behind. 

Then I saw him. _Really_ saw him, as we got close enough in the fog to make out details. My hope and relief shrank, and pain and regret bubbled up in its place. 

He was barely upright, helping a gaunt kid across the slick rocks. His dark hair was caked in blood, and the side of his face was swollen so badly he could only open one eye. Both cheeks were a deep purple, and his lips were split at intervals. He swayed and staggered as he walked, and I stepped forward, gripping his shoulders tight and steadying him. 

“God, Dickie… what’s going on?” I couldn’t stop myself as I pulled him into a tight hug. 

“What are you doing here? It’s not safe. You need to go…” He was disoriented and rambling. 

“Fine. We’ll go, but you’re coming with us.” Damian grabbed his wrist, but he pulled it back sharply. 

“No. I can’t. There are more prisoners inside… I was just getting these people to the boat at the docks. I have to go back.” He turned to me, pleading, “I need you to take care of Duke, Jason. He’s bad off.”

“You’re delirious, Dickiebird. Duke is _dead_.” I could spot his concussion a mile away. I pulled on him again. 

“No!” Dick stepped back, almost falling, and grabbed the shoulders of the kid he was helping. The boys dark skin was ashen, his eyes fixed on some faraway point, and he was mumbling to himself, rocking slightly. His face was hollow and gaunt, but I finally recognized him. Dick was right. 

Duke was _alive_. 

“How…?” I began, but Dick just shook his head and pushed Duke into Damian’s arms.

“You need to get him to Bruce. Now. We don’t have a lot of time.” He nodded to our boat and started guiding the injured and abused prisoners over to it, loading them on, one by one. Damian pulled a reluctant Duke aboard, and I stepped on, reaching out to help Dick up and into safety. 

“I just have to go back and get the others. There's another boat on the north dock. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.” He offered a beleaguered smile as reassurance. “You have to go _now_. There are about six or seven _very_ pissed guards coming this way. I can give you cover, but not forever.”

“No. No goddamn way,” I growled, “We are not leaving here without you, Dick.” 

He pulled me into an anguished kiss, and I could feel his tears on my lips.

“Yes. You are.”

He stepped back and pushed on the hull with his foot, shoving us off into the rising tide. Then he slipped into the fog and was gone. 

Damian fired up the outboard motor. 

“Fuck! Turn that off! We’re not leaving him!” I pushed past shrieking and terrified survivors, reaching for the kill switch. I wasn’t fast enough, and Damian angrily wiped away tears of his own as he piloted us away from the island. 

“Turn us around right now!” I screamed. 

Damian just shook his head. “It’s too late, Todd. Grayson made his choice. And we have a duty to uphold.” He cradled Duke’s head against his broad chest and set his sights on the marina.

I couldn’t tear my focus away from Blackgate. 

_Damnit, Dickie. What have you done?_


	14. Hope and Hopelessness

_ **** _ ****

** _Dick Grayson_ **

I’ve done a lot of hard things in my life. I mastered an aerial quad. I buried my parents. I’ve sustained abuse, torture, and destruction. But all of that paled in comparison to how difficult it was to say goodbye to Jason. How gut wrenching it was to watch his horror as I shoved his boat away, setting him adrift without me. How hellish it was to disappear into the fog while he screamed at Damian to turn back.

How heart-breaking it was to kiss him, confident in the knowledge that it would most likely be the last time.

Because, odds were, I wasn’t going to make it out of this alive. But as long as there were innocent people trapped here, I had to go back. For them. 

I pressed my body flat against the limestone wall that surrounded Blackgate, allowing myself to catch my breath and my bearings. Fighting hard against the sobs crushing my lungs. All I’d ever wanted was to love him, to be loved by him. And I threw it away. Again. 

I couldn’t rest long, wallowing in self-indulgent fantasies of making it to shore, back to Jason and safety. As always, lives hung in the balance. Terrance and I had cleared out one wing of solitary cells, and we were on the way out together with the first batch when he turned back, ready to run interference on the guards hot on our tail. Stupid, brave kid. If I hadn’t been practically carrying Duke, I would’ve turned back, too. 

Poor Duke. I don’t know how or why he lived, but whatever they’d done to him had broken him. He’d dug his fingers into my arm as we shambled out of the prison together, his incoherent whispers warm in my ear. Maybe they didn’t do _anything_ to him, and that was the problem. Months of endless solitary could grind the strongest heroes into dust. 

At least he had made it to safety. With family. People who might stand a chance at gluing the pieces of his shattered mind together. That alone made whatever sacrifices came next worth it.

I groped against the wall in the thick smog, letting the cool, rough surface serve as ballast for my battered equilibrium. Step by careful step, I worked my way back to the open gates of the penitentiary. 

Mercifully, deserted. Whatever distraction Terrance cooked up, it must’ve been _good_. 

There was considerably less cover in the open yard between the gate and the intake entrance where I had slipped out. I had to make do with creeping along the edges of the fences and buildings, relying on long shadows and thick fog to keep me hidden. Feeling along the farthest wall, I found the handle on the door and pulled. 

_Still_ deserted. Something was very wrong. I should have heard shouts, commotion. The thud of boots on concrete. But there was _nothing_. 

Cautiously, silently, I prowled deeper into the complex, doing my best to listen for anyone, any_thing_, over the incessant ringing in my ears. But the more I walked the louder it got, until I was nearly deafened by the pounding, screeching noise that only I could hear. 

With a furtive glance over my shoulder, and confirmation that I was still alone, I leaned back against the painted concrete block of the hallway, clenching my eyes shut. My concussed brain was strongly protesting against the prolonged exertion of simply being upright, not to mention walking and fighting. I wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. I only needed to hold on long _enough_. Once everyone made it to safety, I could let whatever fate was coming for me just _come_. 

With far too much effort, I opened my eyes again and continued my stumbling pace toward the central ‘bubble’. From there it was just a left turn, then about a hundred paces back to the north wing. Hopefully Terrance was already there, with a gaggle of prisoners, just waiting for me to bust them out. 

Of course, what was it Bruce always said?

“Hope is a terrible thing. If it’s the only thing keeping you alive, you’ll be dead by dawn.”

A quote that seemed apropos as I reached the center of the prison, and turned to face the occupied wing, only to find a smirking LeGrande, a handful of armed Enforcers, and Terrance dead on the ground.

_No. No, no… he was just a kid, just trying to help me…_

I steeled my jaw, took the best fighting stance I could manage, and never heard the guard behind me as he lifted his assault rifle and brought it down swiftly across the back of my head. 

I hit the floor hard, barely hanging on to the last vestiges of light in my quickly obscuring vision. The last thing I saw as I slowly but surely lost my quiet, personal battle, was LeGrande’s superior smirk as she cocked her head to the side. Like I was a curiosity. 

Her light, crisp voice cut through the damn ringing in my ears. 

“That was a _very_ unwise course of action, Mr. Grayson. I’m afraid the punishment will be quite… severe.”

I tried everything I could to stay awake, alert, ready to fight back. But I was betrayed by my own bruised brain. My eyes closed on their own accord, and once again I unwillingly surrendered to the blackness.

— — — — — —

_Before_

Sometimes I liked to lie in bed and pretend everything was ok. Before The Resolution. Just feel the weight of Jason’s warm arm slung across my shoulder. Usually my fantasies involved tropical, remote places that might’ve been untouched by the chaos and destruction. The Galapagos, maybe. Or São Tomé. A place where we could shrink into anonymity and away from the constant, incessant terror that lay just beyond our blackout curtains.

One late afternoon, the pull of that _particular_ daydream was especially strong. My birthday. The first one since the War started. But, as Batman was a little too fond of saying in the early days of our partnership, “crime never sleeps”. I figured that included birthdays, too, so I needed to stop the self-indulgence and get out of bed. 

Gingerly, I slid out from Jason’s grip, padded out of the bedroom and into the kitchen for coffee. More cream and sugar than actual coffee, if I were being honest. A fact that never failed to make Jason chuckle. 

I sat at the table for a little while, nursing the mug and trying not to doze off. Though it was a futile effort, and I was startled out of my propped palms by Jason as he pulled the carafe off the burner and poured a mug of his own. 

“What’re you doing up so early, Dickiebird? You realize it’s basically law that you get to sleep in on your birthday, right?” He yawned and stretched for dramatic effect, then took a seat across from me. 

“It’s 4 p.m. Jason. That’s nobody’s definition of ‘early’. And anyway, I wanted to get report from the morning crew before we headed out tonight. Duke and Tim usually punch out around five.” 

Jason made a sour face and turned away, clearly upset. 

“What’s wrong,” I said with a sigh. As if I didn’t already know. The argument that I knew was coming was a familiar one. 

“How long are we going to keep this up, Dick? This fucking _game_ you insist on playing. Pretending that we’re actually making any difference? Not sure if you noticed, but the looting and rioting is as bad as it was when this all started. We’re not making a dent.” He was shaking his head, frustrated, but he wouldn’t look at me. 

“It’s not about the ‘big picture’ Jay.” I reached for his hand, but he pulled away. Of course, I didn’t take my cue to shut up. “It’s about helping _individuals_, especially now. That’s something you keep losing sight of.” 

His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly furious. “What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? That because I don’t do things your way, _Bruce’s_ way, I don’t care about people? We can’t all have a bleeding heart, Dick.”

“I didn’t say that,” I backpedaled, “I _know_ you care…”

“You're damn right I care,” he interrupted. “And you want to talk about ‘individuals’? Look at _yourself_. You’re running yourself into the ground, and for what? A city and a _world_ on its last legs. You’ve lost sight of the value of your _own_ life, Dick. Again.” 

His rage was subsiding, and he looked away, his breath hitching as he stifled tears, “I can’t lose you. I _can’t_. You’re the only good thing I have left. But if you keep going at this pace, keep heading out there night after night…”

Tense silence settled over us as we both cradled our wounded pride. 

At last, Jason stood and walked around the table, looming over me with a critical eye. He tilted my head up and stole a kiss. “You matter more than this endless, thankless crusade. And I don’t plan on letting you forget that any time soon.”

He pulled me to my feet and took another kiss, harder this time, and overflowing with unspoken fear. I reassured him the only way I really knew how, and I leaned back to tug my shirt off before crashing into him again for more breathless touch. He needed this. _I_ needed this. Needed _him_. 

_Maybe, just this once, we can spend the day forgetting. _

_After all, it is my birthday._

— — — — — —

Drowning. I was drowning. That was the only explanation. Every time I tried to take a breath my mouth was filled with water. I started to panic, tried to move my arms to swim to the surface, but they wouldn’t listen.

_This is it. I’m dying. It’s over..._

I coughed and sputtered, suddenly finding damp air in the darkness. Then a voice, familiar and terrifying. 

“Good of you to join us at last, Mr. Grayson.”

_LeGrande. That’s right. I got caught. Again. _

Just as the memories started to float close enough to grasp, the drowning started once more. 

_No. Not drowning. Waterboarding. You’ve been trained for this, you know how to deal with this. Limit your breathing. Calm. Down. _

Of course, no training in the world can _really_ stand up against two concussions in as many days, followed promptly by a session of punitive torture. I retched and writhed against metal restraints cutting into my skin. 

Finally, the water stopped pouring and the dark cloth was pulled from my face. I did my best to turn my head, clear my airway, but the pain from the earlier blow was sudden and vicious, so I ended up just coughing uselessly. 

LeGrande crouched down beside me, a gesture that might have been comforting coming from anyone else. “Now, Mr. Grayson. I trust there will be no more escape attempts? Though perhaps we’ll keep you shackled in your cell, just to be sure. I would hate for you to miss your chance to defend yourself at the Tribunal.” 

Weakly, I shot back, “You haven’t been a big fan of letting me ‘defend’ myself so far. Why break the streak?” 

She scowled, then jammed her taser into my side, shocking me. Mercifully briefly. Enough to get my attention. Make a point. 

“If you think witticisms are going to save you, you are sadly very mistaken.” She stood, tugging down on her skirt. “The reality, Mr. Grayson, is that there are six days until your Tribunal, and you are clearly beyond rehabilitation. After all, you coerced and manipulated one of our own guards into assisting you. Perhaps it’s time you made peace with the inevitable truth. In less than a week you will be dead. And_ I _will be very glad of it.” 

For once I held my tongue. There was nothing that I could say that would improve the situation, and I was far too weak and disoriented to put up anything even resembling a fight. 

“Take him back to his cell, Officer Davis. Shackles, as discussed.” LeGrande walked away a few paces, then turned back to face him. “You know, with the Tribunal so close, I don’t see a need to waste any more meals on him. Understood?” 

Davis smiled, wide and sinister. His uniform shirt was speckled with blood - he probably shot Terrance himself. 

“Yes, Ma’am. Happy to oblige.”


	15. Need

_ **** _ ****

** _Jason Todd_ **

“I want to know where you were and how you found Duke. Right. Now.”

Damian and I weren’t kowed by Bruce’s rising temper. I kept my head down, anyway. Not because I was scared, but because my chest ached too much to talk, and maybe if I looked remorseful I wouldn’t have to. 

_You left him. You left him. And with as bad as he looked… even a fighter like Dickie won’t beat those odds._

Damian, however, stood toe to toe with the Old Man, nearly matching his height with his shoulders back, imperious expression solidly in place behind his upturned nose. “We attempted to rescue Grayson.”

“You _what?!_ After I expressly told you to wait?” You could almost _feel_ everyone in the bunker shrink as Bruce growled. “Do you have _any_ idea what the ramifications of your insubordination might be? What your impatience could cost us?”

“You left us with little choice, _Father_.” Damian’s voice held an air of disdain that nobody else could match. “You know as well as I that Grayson’s condition would only deteriorate in the coming days. Todd and I were unwilling to gamble his life for a folly notion that this _Tribunal _will lead to anything other than his brutal execution. No one is coming to help us. Our only choice is to help _ourselves_. And you’re a fool if you think otherwise.” 

Bruce tightened his jaw. The muscles and sinew beneath his skin looked taut enough to snap. He and Damian stood in silence, tense and inches apart, neither backing down. 

Minutes ticked by like that, both of them refusing to relent. Finally, Cass sighed and put her hand on Damian’s chest. “Sit.” 

The kid rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. At least he had the common sense not to pick a fight with Cass. She turned to Bruce and signed ‘sit down’ abruptly. At first he refused, and she shot him a withering glare. “No fighting. _Family_.” 

Bruce finally backed away and collapsed into a nearby chair. He let out a shuddering sigh and glanced over at the medbay where Alfred was trying to asses Duke’s condition. The kid was completely gone, and his knees were drawn up to his chest as he rocked back and forth slowly. 

“Duke was in Blackgate this entire time.” It wasn’t a question, more a remorseful statement, and Bruce shook his head, clearing it. Trying to take everything in. “So you rescued Duke, but couldn’t get to Dick?”

“We didn’t rescue jack shit.” Suddenly I was a bundle of tight, painful fury. Behind his now-calm expression, I could see the _blame_ settling in, and I was not about to let him point the finger at Dami and me for actually _trying_. “By the time we got there, Dick was already out the door with a gaggle of survivors. Duke included. We just loaded them up and brought them to the mainland, then took them to one of Damian’s supply cashes a few blocks away.” 

Bruce’s eyes were wide, and I watched the cogs in his brain turn. It was like he was trying to glue a shattered vase together, but he didn’t have all the pieces. 

He finally settled on a single question, “Why didn’t Dick come back with you?” I could see him holding his breath as he waited for the answer. 

“There were additional detainees in the complex. Grayson and Todd...” Damian looked at me and I suppressed a wince. 

_Dick kissed me. In front of Damian. And he’s going to tell Bruce - exactly what Dick was hoping to avoid._

Then he continued, shaking his head at my obvious discomfort with a look that said he would keep our secret. For now. “Grayson insisted Todd and I continue on without him, and that he would follow behind once the detainees were released. However, his physical condition was very poor - if he encountered resistance he wouldn’t have been able to fight back. Given that he has not returned, it’s reasonable to assume he was captured again. Or killed.” 

Bruce nodded once, calculating behind his cold expression. “They’re going to use him as propaganda, ‘captured’ is more likely.”

“I’m going back for him.” Without thinking I turned to leave and felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder. Tim. 

“If we move too soon, he dies. Game over. You got lucky last time. We’re all worried about him. We _all_ want him back. Everyone just needs to hang on a little longer.” 

Angrily, I shoved Tim’s palm away, “Fuck you. Fuck _all_ of you. This is _Dick_. For fucks sake, he would light himself on _fire_ if he thought it would keep _any_ of us warm for even a minute. But you’re all _good_ with some half-baked plan that will probably come too fucking _late_.”

Somewhere behind my terror-filled rant, I could feel Cass quietly staring at me, _through_ me. Like she could read the subtext. Hell, knowing her she probably could. 

_I promised to protect you Dickie. I promised and I failed. And I’m so fucking sorry._

— — — — — —

_Before_

Safe is a very relative term. In the bunker, under the stadium, smashed together in the tiny space with the remaining members of our fucked up ‘family’, we were _supposed_ to be safe.

_Physically_ safe, at least. 

But it soon became very fucking clear that tons of steel and concrete couldn’t protect all of us from having our souls crushed. 

Two weeks. It had been two fucking insufferable weeks trapped in our hidey-hole, making nightly excursions to poke at the nest of Enforcers on the surface. Our twisted motivation was the nightly ‘news’ - a macabre display of the latest ‘insurgents’ to face execution. We were like trained dogs. As soon as the jaunty jingle crackled in over the speakers of our communication rig, we all gathered around, postponing any preparations for the nights activities. 

It was a perfunctory ritual, so rote we barely paid attention. Disturbing, how quickly people can get used to something so fucking brutal. 

I only snapped out of my distracted half-listening when I felt Dickie tense beside me at the words “we are pleased to bring you a message from Inspector Lubach, stationed at Iron Heights Penitentiary in Central City.”

In the early days, live executions like this were rare. Usually they just displayed a list of everyone “purged” from society. But it quickly became obvious why this was a special occasion. 

The screen faded in on a battered Wally West, The Flash, tugging against his bonds, inhibitor collar firmly locked in place. Keeping him captive and his abilities suppressed. 

Dick was shaking his head in horror and disbelief. Because we all knew what came next. He was about to see the murder of his best friend in real time. I reached for his hand and squeezed, careful to avoid anyone’s suspicious glares. Not that it was hard. Everyone was transfixed by the atrocity on the screen. 

I leaned into his ear and whispered, “You don’t have to watch this, Dickie.” 

Eyes wide, he didn’t look away. Just exhaled a quivering breath and replied, “yes. I do.” 

I don’t think anyone _really_ heard the monologue they used to justify _murder_. It didn’t matter. When the droning stopped, Wally gave one final, pleading look into the camera. Then it was over. 

Part of me was grateful it was quick. Shot to the back of the head. Means of execution was always left up to the monster in charge, and most of the time the victims _suffered_. But I guess they didn’t want to fuck around with a meta like Wally. Or maybe this Lubach guy was _marginally_ less screwed up than his contemporaries. 

Yeah. Right. Fucking psychos, every one. 

As the newscaster once again faded into view and continued his talking points, Dick staggered back with a white knuckled grip on the remains of his composure. The rest of the family offered sympathetic looks, or a pat on the shoulder, then returned their attention to the grainy screen. Nobody else noticed as he slipped out of the bunker. Nobody but me. And I wasn’t going to let him suffer alone. 

I waited a beat to give him space, a chance to catch his breath, then I slipped out too, expecting to find him just outside the door. But he was gone. 

_Shit. Forgot how fast he could be._

Thank fuck he wasn’t hard to find. At least for someone who really knew him. Just look in the absolute tallest point available - Dickie only ever felt at home close to the sky. 

The last of the grey cast of sunlight had fallen below the horizon by the time I had clambered up on top of the press box where Dick silently sat, his legs dangling off the edge and his eyes fixed on the smoggy, starless sky. Carefully, I sat down next to him, choking on the feeling that I _needed_ to fill the wordless quiet with useless fucking platitudes. 

I listened to his breathing. Measured and intentional, and I could almost hear him counting his inhales and exhales, doing his damndest to keep it together. With a sharp break in the pattern, still looking into the distance, he whispered, “You were right. You were right about _everything_ and I wouldn’t listen.”

I turned to look at him, silencing the question on my tongue. Dick needed to get this out, to _talk_. There would be time for me to reassure him after. 

“We’re not making a difference,” he continued. “They just keep killing and killing, and nothing we do stops them. It’s hopeless, and pointless, and…”

A sob broke through the stone wall he’d hastily built around his heart. Then another, and I pulled him against my chest as he fell apart. He wrapped his arms around me, and I stifled tears of my own. I’d never heard him sound so _shattered_ before. 

Years and years of the anguish he’d stuffed down finally made it to the surface, and we stayed up there for what seemed like hours. I just cradled him as best I could, guarding him against the icy wind, whispering into his hair, “I know. I know. I’ve got you…” 

After a while his chest stopped heaving, his breathing evened again, and I tilted his head up, nuzzling away his tears. He sniffled and pulled away, shaking his head and wiping at his eyes with balled up fists. His voice was shaky and raw as he choked out, “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t. Don’t you _dare_ say that. This world is fucked and brutal and you, more than anyone, deserve a chance to let it out. To grieve everyone we’ve lost.” Just to drive the point home, I tangled my hand in the front of his shirt and pulled him to me, giving and taking a kiss we both needed. He tensed for a split second, then surrendered. 

With as much gentleness I could manage in the heat of our need, I pressed him back against the frigid cement of the press box roof, letting my weight and my hands reassure him in the physical language Dick seemed most fluent in. 

_I’m here. You’re safe. And I’m not going anywhere._

— — — — — —

I stood, feet glued to the floor, as my angry words died in the too-small space. Too scared to move. Too furious to stay still. Paralyzed by grief and indecision.

But not for long. Because the blaring of a perimeter alarm pushed everyone into survival mode, and my rage was swept under the rug. For the moment. 

“I have three heat signatures on the sideline terrace. They don’t seem in much of a hurry, though. It’s like they’re searching for something.” Barbara leaned in, squinting at the screen, cursing under her breath at the lack of a video feed. 

Bruce rounded on me and Damian, furious all over again. “You brought intruders to our doorstep. This is _precisely_ why I wouldn’t sanction a rescue attempt. You may have doomed us all with your _selfish_ disregard for orders.” 

My temper flared again, and I pushed forward, ready to shut the Old Man up, no matter what it took. ‘Cause I’d be _damned_ if he called me _selfish_ for trying to save Dickie. 

“We can all tear each other’s throats out later,” Selina snarked, effectively shelving the confrontation as she lithely stepped between us. “For now, we have _visitors_ to welcome. And I say we roll out the red carpet for them.” 

Cass nodded solemnly, and the two of them grabbed some gear and headed for the door with Bruce trailing behind. 

“I’m coming, too.” I grabbed Bruce’s arm and dug in my fingers, making it perfectly clear this wasn’t a request. 

“Absolutely not. You and Damian have broken my trust. If I can’t count on you to follow orders, I can’t count on you in the field.” Without another word, he slammed the door shut behind them. 

I snatched the handle, ready to storm after them, but was stopped by Damian, who leaned on the door, trapping me inside. 

“As much as I am loathe to agree with him, Father is _right_.” He tilted towards me to whisper, the words sharp in my ear, “Whatever your _relationship_ with Grayson is, it has compromised your judgement. You are a liability in the field. I would _never_ have agreed to assist you had I known your emotional state would cloud your actions. We failed, Todd. Perhaps it’s time to listen to orders, lest we make the same mistake _again_.” 

I snarled, but stepped back from the door. 

“Besides,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “If _Father_ falls in combat, our services will be required to rescue Grayson, according to _their_ plan. He _needs_ you to keep your head.”

I felt guilt wash over me. 

_What the fuck am I doing? Gunning for a brawl? Maybe I am selfish. Because Dickie is going to need me. And I won’t let him down again._


	16. Penance

_ **** _ ****

** _Dick Grayson_ **

_ “Embrace the pain. Make it your closest friend. Use the pain to remind you of who you are.” _

Batman’s instructions, reminders of childhood training, wandered into my mind unbidden. His deep, dark voice used to be soothing. Now even the memory of it made my excruciating headache worse. 

_Embrace the pain._

I had no idea how long it had been since my escape attempt had crumbled into dust. Since Terrance had been murdered because I wasn’t enough to save him. Not good enough, not fast enough, not smart enough. 

_He was just a kid. A kid killed trying to protect you._

Davis had hit me again before dragging me back to my cell. I remembered that much. But not what came after. Wasn’t sure where all these _bruises_ came from. Red and blue and purple, deep and painful and _everywhere_. 

I couldn’t recall them shackling me to cold metal pipes jutting out from the wall, either. The chains were just long enough for me to lift myself to the sink for water that I could only hope wasn’t contaminated. Not enough slack to actually lay down on the cot. So I sat and shivered on the floor and tried not to fall into myself. Tried not to surrender to the darkness and just let go. 

_Embrace the pain... _

Must’ve at least been a few days. The gnawing, empty pain in my stomach was gone. Or maybe it was just drowned in the cacophony of suffering. Tamped down by the throbbing drumbeat of that damned headache.

_Make it your closest friend._

I guess I tried to slip the cuffs at some point. Would explain why my wrists were mottled and bloody. But I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. I was too weak to try again. 

_Bruce would be so disappointed in you. He trained you to survive things like this. To escape._

That wasn’t entirely true. He _had_ prepared me to resist starvation, beatings, and torture when they were tools in the hands of an interrogator. _All_ of us were trained to keep our secrets, even if it killed us. But I must’ve missed the lesson on how to keep it from driving me insane. How to cope when my captors _had_ no end game aside from working diligently to destroy me. 

Jason would know what to do. Jason would keep his head. He’d been through more agony than anyone, and he came out the other side. Came through it all and was _ still_ capable of loving me more ferociously than I could ever conceive.

Heartache joined my list of torments. 

_You’ve pushed Jason away. Over and over. Even if, by some miracle, you survive this, do you really think he’ll open himself up again?_

It probably wouldn’t matter. Survival odds looked bleaker by the minute. I suppressed a shudder as I heard heavy boots slow, then stop outside my cell. The door swung open and I instinctively winced, covering my face as Davis stepped inside, brandishing his baton and a sinister smile. 

“‘S’it time?” I slurred, expecting to be hauled to my feet and off to my fate at the ‘Tribunal’. 

Laughing, he crouched down and dug his fingers into my hair, nails biting at my scalp. “You still got _days_ before it’s time, Princess. I’m just here to make sure those days are as painful as possible.”

He slammed me back and stood, continuing to laugh with maniacal glee as he kicked and hit whatever target was easiest. I did my best to cover my head - another concussion would probably kill me - but it left my side wide open. Steel toed boots connected and I felt ribs shatter and splinter with the force. I coughed and sputtered on the blood that suddenly filled my mouth; the herald of a punctured lung. 

_Embrace the pain…_

“What _exactly_ do you think you are doing, Officer Davis?” LeGrande’s voice echoed in from the hallway, and the blows abruptly stopped. Gasping and wheezing, I looked up to see her framed by the door, hands crossed over her chest, scowling. 

Davis stammered and sputtered, trying and failing to find an explanation for his wanton brutality. 

LeGrande held up a hand, stopping his attempts and rolling her eyes in disapproval. “You realize if he dies _before_ the Tribunal, there will be _consequences_. And I will ensure the President's office is made very aware of who was responsible. Now get him to medical before he bleeds to death. Idiot.” 

Chastised, Davis pulled out his keys and unlocked the shackles, the heaved me  
to my feet. For his trouble, I coughed a mouthful of blood onto his uniform, just as I collapsed back onto the floor and stopped fighting for consciousness. 

_Embrace the…_

— — — — — —

_Before_

After those first 48 hours holed up in my bathroom with Jason, after he confessed his love for me, I was ashamed to admit it wasn’t mutual. I didn’t love him, not like that. Or, I had _convinced_ myself that I didn’t love him. That our ‘relationship’ was casual and physical. Filling a mutual need.

What can I say? I was raised by Batman, after all. I had a knack for swallowing emotions I wasn’t prepared to deal with. 

Forgetting it was easy at first. We were busy. Night after night of endless, thankless work. Together we’d smother our sorrows and aches under the pillows and sheets. Rinse and repeat. 

My avoidance of the topic had become so rote that we made it two years without addressing it. Before bad timing and an asshole with a gun changed things. 

No. Wait. It started with pizza. 

Somewhere in the space between the first bombings and Lex’s takeover, the US government limped along by instituting a ration ticket system. People on our block got to go to the store and trade coupons for food on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Actual _money_ was a thing of the past. The bottom fell out of the exchange rate the minute the first bomb hit. 

So, needless to say, comfort food was _not_ on the menu. Which made it all the more surprising when I came home from a check-in at the manor to find hot pizza on the table and Jason smiling beside it. 

“How…” I was blinking, stupefied. As if it were some mirage or trick of the light. Not _really_ a pizza, just three cans of beans in a trench coat. 

His Cheshire grin grew. “I _made_ it.”

He pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. I flopped down, flummoxed, even as he placed a crisp slice on my plate. 

I looked from him, to the pizza, and back again. Still not quite believing it. He laughed a little and relented. “Fine. I’ll share my secrets with you. We had some flour left from last week's ticket. And some stewed tomatoes because you _hate_ them. So there’s the crust and the sauce.”

I took a slow, tentative bite. My eyes flew open and I covered my mouth while I chewed, retaining at least a little decorum. “This is amazing! Where did you get real _cheese_?”

“That,” he grinned again, “was trickier. There’s a guy out by Robinson Park that will take some milk tokens and some tradable stuff and _make_ mozzarella. Apparently he still has the enzymes and salt left, just needs milk and something to make it worth his while.” 

Suddenly ravenous, I took another bite, fascinated and nodding along. “What did we have that was worth _trading_?”

The smile settled out of his eyes a little, still making it up to his cheeks. “He was pretty smitten with my Beretta. And ammunition’s harder and harder to come by…”

Once again I was stunned. But for an entirely different reason. Jason had that gun since the early days. His preferred weapon, even after he switched to rubber bullets. Giving up a firearm was conceding some of his own defenses. I knew him well enough to understand vulnerability like _that_ was excruciating for him. 

He shrugged at my silence and grabbed a slice of pizza for himself. “What can I say, Dickiebird? I’d cut off my arm for you if I thought it’d make you happy. I _love_ you.”

There is was. An inescapable declaration. I lowered my head and closed my eyes. “Jay, I…”

“It’s ok,” he interrupted, shrugging again and feigning nonchalance. “You don’t have to say it. I’m not upset. I just… I wanted you to know. Because I _do_ love you, and it’s enough for me that we make each other happy.” He scoffed, clambering to the more comfortable terrain of gallows humor, “At least as happy as anyone can be living in an irradiated hell-hole, right?”

I’d like to think I would have had _something_ worthwhile to say in the awkward heartbeat that followed. We never got a chance to find out. Simultaneously, our phones pinged with an alert from Bruce. 

“_Armed assailant at Gotham General Hospital. Hostages taken._”

“Well, shit…” Jason muttered. 

With practiced speed we stood from the table and headed for our gear, forgetting the conversation and the pizza. We were afraid something like this might happen. People, children especially, were getting cancer at an alarming rate. It was so bad there was a waiting list for chemotherapy and radiation treatments - triaged so the patients with the best chance at survival went first. That left a _lot_ of very sick people to languish. It was only a matter of time before the dam burst on the implications, and a hurting family member would decide to take matters into their own hands, using violence to bump their loved ones up the list. 

Naturally, the newly-militarized police would approach this situation with a sledge hammer when a scalpel was required, and people would die. So we suited up and headed out, preparing for the worst. 

As predicted, the entrance of the hospital was completely barricaded by SWAT vans and police with body armor and assault rifles. Detouring to the back, we shattered the window of a small office and slipped inside. I pressed my ear to the door and heard what sounded like a terrified man on the phone with a negotiator. We were close. 

“I don’t want nobody to get hurt,” he said, a pleading edge to his voice, “but my little boy ain’t got a lotta time and I just want him to get medicine. That’s all. I’m scared he’ll be dead before they make it to him on that damn list.” 

I closed my eyes and tried to crush the growing heartache with my deep breaths. 

Leaning over, I whispered to Jason, “Assailants a Dad, trying to save his kid. I’ll head out, try to talk him down. You hang back and be ready to save my ass if this goes south. Yeah?” 

Solemnly, he nodded. We both knew how this would end. Nobody was coming out of this situation a winner. Either the police would barge in and kill the desperate man, or I would manage to walk _him_ back from the metaphorical ledge, dooming his son in the process. 

Steadying myself with another breath, I turned the knob and opened the door slowly, keeping myself low and my hands spread wide. Making sure it was obvious I wasn’t a threat. Still, I wasn’t surprised to find myself at the business end of a loaded handgun held aloft in trembling hands. 

“I want to help you. Okay?” I kept my voice quiet and took a tentative step forward. “We can just talk. I heard your son is sick.” Another step away from the door and into the Emergency Department hallway. The man matched the gesture with a shuffling step back. I stopped. “What’s your name?”

“L-Lucas? Lucas Ruiz?” He seemed genuinely taken aback at my question. Like it was the first time anyone had asked him since this all started. 

_Leave it to the police to utterly fail to see this guy as an actual person._

“Hey, Lucas. I’m Nightwing. What’s your son’s name?”

“Isidro. We call him Izzy. He’s… he’s only 4. He’s so little…” Tears started falling and he lowered the gun. 

I stepped forward, grabbing him in a hug as his adrenaline crashed and he started to fall to the floor, sobbing. I pulled the gun from his hands and slid it out of reach as I whispered, “I know. It’s not fair. He’s little and he’s sick and you just wanted to make him better. You’re a good father. But he needs you by his side, not in a jail cell. He _needs_ his dad.” 

Jay stepped out of his hiding spot and made a quick check of the other people in the ED, ensuring sure no one was hurt, while I did my best to comfort Lucas, who was now shaking uncontrollably and weeping. 

Then some moron ex-hostage decided it was his moment to be a hero and he snatched up the handgun from the floor in front of him, pointed it at Lucas, and fired. 

I did my best to shield him, but Jay was faster. He dove in front of both of us, then grunted and fell to the ground as the bullet buried itself in his side. Moving on instinct, I tore myself away from Lucas, then tugged off Jason’s jacket and pressed hard on the steadily bleeding wound. 

With my other hand I wrenched at his helmet. He grabbed my wrist to stop me, then unfastened it himself. “Jesus, Goldie.” He coughed, then winced. “I knew you’d be mad at me for getting myself shot, but I didn’t figure you’d _literally_ try and tear my head off.”

Stifling a chuckle and rolling my eyes, I pulled my hand back to survey the damage. “You’re damned lucky,” I remarked, “it's not very deep. Your jacket must’ve taken most of it.”

With shots fired, it was only a matter of time before SWAT was banging down the door, so we took our cue to exit. I hoisted Jay up and we shambled out of the broken window together. Seemed like ages, but we finally made it back to my apartment, and I tossed him down on the couch so I could grab the med kit. 

He was bellyaching by the time I came back. “Can you at least get me a beer or something - this is really starting to _hurt_.”

“Consider it penance for being an idiot.” I grabbed on tight to the end of the slug with forceps, and pulled hard, freeing it, then stemming the flow of fresh blood with sterile gauze. 

“And here I thought…” he sucked a breath through his teeth as I cleaned out the wound, “here I thought _you_ were the one atoning for some sin. You certainly spend enough time on your knees.” He waggled his eyebrows at the raunchy joke. 

I rolled my eyes, scoffing. “Sometimes I wonder why I love you, Jay.” 

His smile dropped and his mouth hung open. “You… said it.”

“I did…” I hadn’t even realized that I’d said it. But I found that it didn’t feel as wrong as I’d feared. I reached out to touch the side of his face, stroke his cheek with my thumb. “And I do. I love you, Jason.” I leaned forward and claimed a gentle kiss, hoping to show him everything I couldn’t yet bear to say. 

_I’ve loved you for ages. And I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you. But I’ll spend a lifetime making it up to you. I promise. _

— — — — — —

Hazy. I tried to remember where I was and why, but everything seemed cottony and distant. Tentatively, I attempted to sit up, but found it impossible. My wrists were cuffed to tan bed rails on either side of the narrow cot. In spite of my disorientation, I took stock of injuries. Or would have, if not for the tight, clipped sound of heels on tile.

“Welcome back, Mr. Grayson. You’ll be pleased to know that we’ve patched you up. Again.” LeGrande did _not_ seem amused. 

I, on the other hand, found the entire situation absurd, and barked out an excruciating laugh. “You didn’t have to on my account. Don’t expect me to thank you for protecting your own interests.”

“A duty I will happily discharge_ very_ soon. You’ve been convalescing for days, Mr. Grayson. And time is nearly up.” The edges of her lips cocked up into an almost-smile. “Though perhaps I should have thanked Officer Davis before he was… reassigned. His indiscretion has given us an opportunity to make you presentable for your Tribunal. After all, you will be of little use to us if you aren’t recognizable to your own family of miscreants and malcontents.” 

Suddenly the situation seemed significantly less humorous. 

She continued, absently examining her perfectly polished fingernails. “In a few hours, you will be transported to the courthouse to await final judgement. And with your execution inevitable, I find myself already breathing easier.”

“Keep the champagne on ice, LeGrande,” I spat with as much venom as I could manage, “I’m not dead yet.”


	17. Subversion

_ **** _

_ **Jason Todd** _

Tension in the bunker was building. Every minute that passed while Bruce, Cass, and Selina confronted our ‘visitors’ ratcheted up the pressure, until I felt like my chest might just fucking collapse under the strain. I sat on my cot with my hands in my hair, gaze fixed on the floor. If only so I didn’t have to pay attention to Damian’s incessant pacing, Alfred’s obsessive preparation of our medbay, or Tim and Barbara’s furtive glances back and forth between different monitors.

Briefly, I entertained the idea that it wasn’t an intruder at all. That maybe Dick _had_ made it back, somehow. But as soon as the thought entered my head, I realized how idiotic it was. Dick would have come straight back, not fucked around upstairs on some mezzanine. Especially since he was hurt. 

_Bleeding and concussed and bruised. Even before he turned back. If they so much as breathed on him again I swear to fuck I’m going to…_

“Oh, shit.” 

Tim’s quiet declaration carried enough weight to drag me out of my murderous fantasies. 

“Care to elaborate?” I snapped, looking up at last. 

“Incursion was five minutes ago. Now all six heat signatures are headed back this way.” He snatched up his bo-staff, a rarely used relic, and flattened himself against the wall by the door. 

“Slow your roll there, genius,” I huffed. “What makes you think these are hostiles?”

“Safer to assume the worst.” He gestured to the others to get ready, too. 

Silently, Barbara followed suit. Tucking away into the shadows as best she could, armed with a taser. Even Alfred squared up, protecting Duke, ready to fight back. 

I thought their caution was ridiculously overboard, but I found myself holding my breath, standing and widening my stance. Planning and strategizing, even as the latch on the heavy door lifted. 

Bruce stepped over the threshold first. His face was grim, and my heart stuttered to a stop. Bad news was coming? I was sure of it. Only started beating again when Selina and Cass came into view, both smiling. The thick cloud of fear evaporated, and a ripple of relief tinged with anticipation spread through all of us. 

Well, _almost_ all of us. 

The only one who _didn’t_ relax was Tim. Suspicious fucker. A trait that only got worse with time. “What’s happening? Why did you bring other people with you? After the hell you gave Jason for compromising us?” 

Bruce looked like he’d swallowed something disgusting. He contorted his face into something more unpalatable than a grimace. But Cass was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, which was very unlike her usual restrained grace. 

“They’re here because they want to help. You’ll all want to hear this.” Behind her casual, effortless aloofness, Selina seemed _nervous_, and tentatively waved in three people who were standing just outside the door. Two women and a man. A guy whose face seemed so damned familiar…

“Uh, hello.” The man started speaking cautiously, eyes darting between us. Unsure. “It’s like I told them. Everybody saw what they did to Nightwing. What they’re gonna do. But no matter what they say, us locals know what kinda guy he is. He kept me from making one of the worst mistakes of my life. Gave me a chance to be with my boy before he…” the man sniffled, and his story dragged a memory out to the forefront of my mind. 

_They guy from the hospital. The guy Dick was ready to take a bullet for. The guy I did take a shot for. Lucas, was it? _

He pointedly fixed his face, biting off the beginnings of actually crying. “Anyways. We all got things like that. Ways that Nightwing saved our asses. Or picked us up off the street. All kinds of heroic shit. We’ve been mobilizing since we saw that they had him. Lots of us. But we need help. Coupla guys figured out where Nightwing was picked up, thought maybe we’d find other Bats nearby. We’ve been searching around there ever since. Luck would have it you all came out and found _us_.”

Damian tutted in disbelief. “You’re telling me there are, what? Hundreds of you? All ready to step up and fight back for him? You realize this is a suicide mission for most of you, right?” 

One of the women behind Lucas simply shook her head. “No. Not hundreds. Thousands. Thousands of people who owe Nightwing their lives, and are ready to pay up if they gotta. Cause he don’t even _know_ us and he’s stepped up for us. Only seems right that we do the same.” 

I smiled as a morbid glee flooded my chest, _almost_ replacing the despair from before. We weren’t just going after Dick in some doomed, impossible mission. We were going in with a fucking _army_.

And those sick freaks that took Dickie, _hurt_ him…

They were gonna pay. 

Behind the waves of savage satisfaction, I felt the niggling of guilt. Shame that I had tried, again and again, to force Dick to just look out for himself and _forget_ these people. People I was convinced didn’t give a rats ass about him. 

_I’m so sorry, Dickie. I’ve never been more wrong._

— — — — — —

_Before_

I had my suspicions for _weeks_.

Dick was sneaking out. 

Not in a “stepping out on our pseudo-serious relationship” sense. But about 4 years into the war, with no end in sight, we had both _agreed_ to patrol less, focus on _us_ more. Especially since new bombing threats were coming in every day. It was pretty clear the world was really on its last legs this time. And even Dick had agreed that maybe, _maybe_, we should stop fighting so fucking hard. 

At least I thought he had. 

Then there were fresh bruises that popped up _days_ after a night out patrolling. Ones I only _really_ noticed as I was lazily running my hands down his back, across his hips, drawing my attention and alarm when he winced at such a light touch. The haggard, stressed look he got when he was barely sleeping, even though we’d been spending more time than _ever_ in bed. 

It all came to a head when I woke up to the sound of running water in the kitchen and Dick nowhere to be found. So I tiptoed carefully out of the bedroom, taking care to avoid the floorboards that I knew creaked. I made it as far as the threshold between carpet and linoleum before he noticed me. 

He looked up, mouth opening slightly with a denial on his lips as he abandoned the task of cleaning out a deep gash in his hand. 

“What the _fuck_ happened?” I growled, trying and failing to keep the white hot edge of betrayal and rage out of my voice. I wasn’t fucking stupid. I _knew_ how a person got hurt like that. Knew what he was up to. But I wanted him to tell me to my face. Admit the lies. 

He shut off the water. Put his good hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched hard with a sigh. “Jay…” he said softly, avoiding an explanation. 

I did my best to count breaths, but I couldn’t concentrate over the steady _drip-dripping_ of Dick’s blood hitting the stainless steel sink basin. “You _promised_ we were backing off! You _lied_ to me! And now look!” I snatched his wrist and held his red-stained hand in front of his face. Not seeing the grimace that would have told me I was _hurting_ him. 

“What do you want me to say, Jason?” My name was like acid on his tongue, painful and burning. “I can’t sit by and _play house_ with you while people are dying right outside our window! I won’t.” He wrenched his hand away and returned to the task of cleaning the bloody slice, pointedly ignoring me. 

I should have apologized. Should have checked my rage before I even stepped out of our bedroom. But I was so fucking tired of this argument. Tired of him idealizing his own slow march to suicide. Tired of him claiming the moral high-ground to justify his own recklessness. “How long, huh?” I demanded. “How long have you been going out behind my back after you _swore_ we’d take it easy?” 

“Do you even care what I did tonight?” He deflected. “Who I saved? Children, Jay. Kids being exploited by pimps for _ration tickets_, of all things. Even if it _is_ the end of the goddamn world, don’t they deserve to spend their final days doing _anything_ other than being used and destroyed by people who couldn’t care less about them?”

I just stood there. Breathing heavily and shaking my head. “Of _course_ I care that you saved some kids. But I think I’m the only one that actually cares about _you_, and that’s a sad fucking statement. Because _you_ don’t even care about you. I mean, look at yourself.” I tugged at his hand, gentler this time, and sighed, “Parts of this cut are down to the tendon, Dick. How the hell did this even happen?” 

Shuddering, he sucked a breath over his teeth and dropped his head. Clenched his eyes shut. “Some of the kids were already dead or dying by the time I got there. I pulled off my gloves to check for a pulse while I gave one of them CPR. A pimp I’d put down didn’t _stay_ down. Used the opportunity to pull a knife. I reacted, not even thinking about the fact that my gloves were still on the ground, and…” 

My face contorted in an expression between disgust, pain, and disbelief. “You grabbed a knife with your bare hands?! What the hell kind of rookie mistake is _that_?”

“It was a… miscalculation…” He was grasping for an explanation and failing. 

“Bullshit!” I was getting emotional whiplash, careening back and forth between tenderness and fury. “You’re Dick Fucking Grayson!. You don’t make ‘miscalculations’. You fucked up because you’re running yourself into the ground. Again!” 

I felt like we were stuck in some sort of time loop. Having the same fight over and over again. It was as if he…

“You _can’t_ stop. It’s not that you _won’t_, you literally _can’t_.” My softly spoken epiphany was a stark contrast to the flat out screaming from before, but somehow it seemed _louder_. 

“I’ve been doing this for around twenty years, Jay. I can’t just…” he shrugged, defeated. 

_Goddamnit._

There it was. An ultimatum. He may not have said it, but it was pretty fucking clear. 

_ ‘I’m not going to change. I can’t. So accept it or we’re done.’ _

What could I possibly say that I hadn’t already said a thousand times over? I stood at the edge of a devastating decision. Should I protect myself and let him go, knowing he would destroy himself in a matter of weeks? Or should I love him as long as I have him, watching his back and patching him up until it wouldn’t be enough anymore? Until his mile-wide self-sacrificing streak caught up to him, and I was left behind to bury him? 

I huffed at him, and made my choice. “You need stitches, dumbass. I’ll get the kit.” 

“I’m sorry, Jay. I…” he began. 

“Don’t.” I cut him off. I wasn’t interested in hearing any empty apologies.

The sorrow and anger burning my skin changed into a regret I was ashamed of. 

_Damnit, Dick. I love you. But I never thought I’d live to see the day when I wished I didn’t._

— — — — — —

Training and coordinating seditionists into full blown revolutionaries was not my fucking wheelhouse. I laughed to myself as Tim, Bruce, and Dami herded cats, bringing small groups, dribble by dribble, into the stadium for marching orders and basic tactical instruction. This all seemed very much like something Dickie would have been _great_ at. Was it irony that he wasn’t here to help? Or just really fucking inconvenient?

I was more than a little aware that this was a massive concession on Bruce’s part. There was no way to really vet these people, and yet he was bringing them to our doorstep again and again. We all understood what it meant.

We were going to get Dickie back, or we were going to die trying. 

Part of me was grateful that we were so busy. The days leading up to his Tribunal blurred into each other. But I couldn’t stop waking up from sweat-soaked nightmares each night. Nightmares where we were already _too late_. 

_Dickie’s lifeless blue eyes staring right at me. Right through me. His dark hair absolutely soaked in blood…_

Needless to say, when the night before the Tribunal _finally_ came, I was relieved. Even if everyone else in the family was buzzing with anxiety like they were coming down off a coke bender. 

Everything was ready. Our ‘army’ had their instructions, and all of them had gone to their respective homes to rest and give their loved ones what might be a final farewell. Most of ‘the family’ huddled around our map of Gotham, drawing sweeping red arrows onto the paper, marking out the final details of the plan. 

I listened distractedly as they droned through the tacticalities _again_. 

“We’ve got everybody divided up. Ten battalions of roughly 200 each. After the Tribunal, after they ostensibly malign Dick and sentence him, those groups will storm the front, drawing fire so our team can slip into the back and grab him.” Tim added a few more arrows directed at the front of the courthouse on the map. “Even with numbers on our side, we won’t have long. We’ve got a smattering of handguns and improvised weapons. They have M16s and grenade launchers. It’s going to get… ugly. Fast.”

“The _good_ news is,” Barbara interjected, shooting a look at Tim and chastising his pessimism, “with that many people, streets will be choked off. Any reinforcements they might be able to call in would be stuck, blocks away from the actual incursion. And everything in our intel says that most Enforcers are _still_ down for the count.”

Everyone was so caught up in their plans, they didn’t notice Duke. Usually still and impassive, he started violently shaking his head and muttering something. 

I slipped off of my perch, Dickie’s top bunk, and strode over time him, leaning in and listening intently. 

“What’re you saying, buddy?” I tried to be as gentle as possible. After all, Dick made me _promise_ to take care of the kid. 

He pulled hard down on my collar, eyes wide and terrified. He finally found a voice above a whisper. “Bait. Dick is bait. They’re ready for you. They’re waiting for you. Bruce… Bruce is the one they’re after.” 

My eyes snapped up to the Old Man. Of _course_ this was about _him_. We’d _all_ taken turns as the Batman’s human shield. And this wouldn’t be the _first_ time one of us was beaten, tortured and used as leverage against him. A song and dance I was _intimately_ familiar with. 

The others had heard it too. Bruce’s eyes darkened ominously as I glared at him, pulling sharply away from Duke’s grip. Before I could swallow it down, rage climbed up my throat. “They’re going to _kill_ Dick because of _you_!” I stormed over to him and pushed him. I might as well have raged against a boulder. He was as stony and impassive as one. 

“This changes nothing,” he rumbled. “The motivations of his captors are not our concern. We are as prepared as we can be to handle contingencies.” 

“We’d better be,” I warned, “because if he _dies_, if they _murder_ him, I swear to God I’ll...”

“You’ll what, Jason?” He raged back. “Because I have half a mind to keep you out of this. You’re obviously too emotionally invested to _think_ clearly! In spite of all our careful planning, your lack of discipline might get him killed anyway!” 

I felt Selina’s light hand on the back of my neck. A gentle squeeze and an understanding smile interrupted the furious threat I was preparing to hurl back. “Let’s not say something we’ll regret, hm? It’s clear we’re _all_ very worried about him. This time tomorrow, we can all breathe a little better, yeah?” She shot a scathing glare at Bruce and he stepped away, effectively retreating from the confrontation. 

Scowling at her matronizing, I relented. “Fine.” 

I just had to endure one more night. One more night of horrific dreams. One more night before I could hold him again, beg him to reconsider, take back everything I’d said to him in anger. I stalked over to Dickie’s bunk like a petulant child and sunk my face in his pillow.

It didn’t smell like him anymore.


	18. Immolation

_ **** _ ****

** _Dick Grayson_ **

Brutal. The transport from the med unit to an armored van was brutal. My new CO and torturer extraordinaire, Novak, was as bad as Davis. Worse, maybe, because at least Davis had the decency to look me in the eye when he beat me senseless for fun. Novak kept his focus on whatever cruel task was at hand, refusing to acknowledge me at all. Viciously, he pulled me off the bed in the medical ward and slammed me against the wall to cuff me. But broken ribs don’t heal that fast, and in spite of myself I screamed.

Novak laughed. 

Mercifully, the vertigo and headache had improved, and I was able to keep a mostly straight line as I was marched toward the transport headed to the heavily guarded choke point on and off Blackgate Island: Sutter Bridge. I dragged my feet in the gravel as we approached. Honestly? There was a small part of me that didn’t care what they did to me anymore. A part that was just interested in making _whatever_ it was as difficult as possible. After all, I was a dead man walking. Tribunals couldn’t last more than a few hours. LeGrande had made it clear it was a farce anyway - and sentencing was carried out same-day. At the rate this was going, I'd be dead by dinnertime. 

The van was like any other used to transport prisoners. Tether points for cuffs. A long, metal bench for seating. I was shivering as they shoved me in - prison greys weren’t exactly weather proof - and the steel surroundings of the vehicle only sapped away more heat. 

Novak climbed in behind me, shoving me down into my seat and tugging my arms down to the bar behind my back, restraining me in place. I buried a grimace as the sudden jerk jostled my chest and head. Ok, so my headache wasn’t _completely_ gone yet. 

_You know it’s bad when you start outright lying to yourself._

Under normal circumstances, I could’ve taken Novak. Easy. He was tall, thin, and his knobby elbows stuck out from beneath his rolled-up sleeves. But with my ribs screaming at me, and my brain so clouded I was having trouble staying present, keeping focus? 

Not so much. 

Besides, it’d be pointless to struggle. Even if I did get the drop on Novak, I’d still be trapped on the island, with an impossible expanse of bridge between me and freedom 

No, my last, best shot would come once we were in the city proper. So, as much as it bolstered me to give them hell, all I was really doing was wasting my limited energy. Energy I’d need for _later_. Either to attempt another escape, or to face my very _public_ execution with as much dignity as I could manage. 

With two sharp bangs on the inside of the van, Novak signaled that we were ready, and the doors slammed shut. I kept my head up, shoulders back, eyes fixed on the sadist sitting across from me. I may have been starved, concussed, beaten, and bruised, but I could at least pretend I wasn’t fazed. Pretend I wasn’t scared out of my mind. Lies, if not for _their_ benefit, than for my own. 

Alfred would have a field day with that train of thought. 

_”We are not liars, Master Richard. Liars bend the world to ease their efforts in walking astride it. Without care for the lives warped beneath them. We are not liars. We are performers.”_

If that were true, then I intended to give the Enforcers, LeGrande, and the good people of Gotham watching this atrocity unfold, a hell of a show. After all, it wasn’t like I didn’t have an awareness of the political implications at play. It wouldn’t do _anyone_ any good for me to beg and plead on global television. 

Not like I’d want to give these psychopaths the satisfaction, anyway. 

Slowly, the van began to trundle away. I could hear the seams in the concrete and metal “thud-thudding” when we passed over the junction of the drawbridge. As much as I would have liked to keep my bearings, it was impossible. The back windows were painted black, and I couldn’t lean forward enough to catch any glimpses out of the windshield. Novak kicked me in my shins when I tried anyway. 

Before martial law, before the war, a trip across town could take up to an hour and a half in bad traffic. It’s why rooftops were almost always faster. But with the streets empty and Gothamites huddled in their homes, it was only about fifteen or twenty minutes before the van slowed to a halt. 

I closed my eyes when I heard the latch on the back door release. I’d seen and participated in my fair share of court proceedings. I don’t know why I expected this time to be anything like _before_. Instead of a throng of shouting reporters and onlookers spilling down the steps and into the street, everything was disturbingly _quiet_. I opened my eyes again as Novak reached down over my shoulder, releasing the tether that kept me in place on the seat. 

_He’s so close. Take him down and then you can run._

I leaned back, and then stood abruptly, aiming my forehead for his nose. I only had one shot, and it had to be a knockout. 

It wasn’t. 

Novak staggered back, angry and very much still conscious. Blood pouring down his lips, dripping down his chin. A flash of unbridled rage kindled in his eyes. And then he _smiled_. Smiled behind the blood and lunged forward, sending me backwards and pinning me by my throat with his baton. 

I could feel my windpipe slowly, inexorably crushing under the strain, and my lungs burned as they tried and failed to exhale that final gasp. He still wouldn’t look me in the eyes. Not even as involuntary tears spilled over and down my cheeks, onto his hands. He just growled and pressed harder. 

“Problem, Officer Novak?” 

LeGrande stood, hands on her hips, just outside the open doors of the van, with an expression of exhausted irritation. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response. 

At last Novak stepped back, and dropped his attention to his feet. “No, Ma’am.” 

I gasped and coughed, pulling in as much air as I could manage through my abused and bruising throat. When my reflexive wheezing had quieted enough for her to be heard, she handed Novak a bright white handkerchief and tutted in disdain, “Clean yourself up, Officer. And do not _damage_ him again, lest you find yourself following too closely in your predecessors footsteps. Consider the optics. As soon as you step out of this van, you will be on camera. The world will be watching. Let’s at least maintain the _illusion_ of control and restraint, shall we?”

“As for you.” She icily glared at me, and everything about her posture bristled with contempt. “You would do well to remember not only do I have the distinct pleasure of choosing the _means_ of your execution, I am also more than willing to expose your _perverse_ relationship with your own brother. If you want such a vile thing to be your legacy, then by all means, continue to test my patience.” 

Keeping my chin up suddenly seemed so much harder. My life was hours from being over, but Jason…

_If the others find out, if Bruce finds out… Jason won’t survive on his own._

Whatever the cost, I would keep our secret, and Jason, safe. My shoulders slumped a little, my head bowed in concession. LeGrande made a self-satisfied noise - something approaching a laugh - and motioned for Novak to pull me out of the van. 

Burying a grimace as he wrenched my arm and dug his thin, bony fingers into my skin, I stepped down as carefully as I could, and craned my neck up to take in the looming building before me. The Eastside District Courthouse. 

I’ve never been a connoisseur of architecture, but this particular courthouse was always one of my favorite buildings in this borough. I especially liked the statues that stood, glowering over the streets, from their perch above the facade: Truth, Law, and Justice. 

All three were conspicuously absent. Torn from their pedestals. An ominous warning that their spirits had long since abandoned this place. The inscription above the grand entrance had been altered, too. Before, it read, “The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government.” 

The new words engraved over the too-smooth stone carried an altogether different message. 

“Mercy for the Guilty is Treason to the Innocent” 

I tore my horrified gaze away from the edifice and focused on the imposing stone stairs below. A single camera crew filmed from the top, and stationed on each step was an Enforcer in full tactical gear. An unmistakable show of power. 

Beyond the perimeter guard, I could just make out the faces of civilians. Only a handful, each peering wide-eyed between the gaps. One man in particular gave me a small, furtive smile and a quick, reassuring nod. Bruce, Jason, and the others were nowhere to be found. There was no rescue. They weren’t coming. 

I wasn’t sure if I should feel devastated or relieved.

— — — — — —

_Before_

“Figured I’d find you up here.” Jason announced his presence with heavy footfalls behind me, his boots slapping against the wet tar-paper roof.

Sniffling, I didn’t look back. “Oh? Why’s that?” 

He chuckled, his laugh more than a little gravelly after years of smoking. “Because this is the tallest point in the district. You always run for high ground when you’re upset.” 

I didn’t answer. Just shifted uncomfortably as I sat on the stone ledge, doing my best to inconspicuously cradle my dislocated shoulder. Jason flopped down beside me, and we stared out at the dim lights of the city together in silence. 

In the four years since the war started, Gotham had decayed steadily. Without money or resources for infrastructure, buildings were cracked and crumbling. Sidewalks were permanently filthy and covered with garbage. Gutters were essentially open-pit sewers. The city was dying, rotting from the inside out. Sometimes I felt like I was, too. 

“I fucked up, Jay,” I said at last. 

“Kinda figured, since you're holding your arm like it’s made of glass. What’d you do this time?” Jason waited for my answer with a long-suffering sigh. 

I considered lying. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d lied to him. To save him worry, to avoid a fight, to spare myself from his well-deserved anger. But I was just so tired of it all. Exhausted with maintaining whatever this _relationship_ was. 

My reply was just above a whisper. “I missed a jump.” 

“What?!” He stood and stalked a few steps back, staring pointedly away from me. After a beat, he turned around, ready as ever to rage at me, “You? Missed a fucking jump? Jesus, Dick! You’re lucky you weren't killed! Do you have _any_ self-preservation skills anymore? Christ!” 

I could tell he was waiting for an explanation. An excuse or a denial. He paced in a small circle, running his hands through his hair. Problem was, I didn’t have any defense. Nothing to say to make this better. My body just didn’t turn fast enough. Instead of landing and rolling with the inertia, I slammed into the retaining wall of a roof and grabbed ahold, pulling my shoulder out in the process. 

There was no way I could say _that_. I didn’t want to add more fuel to his fire - another example in a litany of reasons why he thought I should throw in the towel. But maybe he was _right_. Maybe I wasn’t fit to keep this up anymore. Maybe…

“Do you know the average retirement age of Olympic gymnasts, Jay? Twenty-four.” 

He stopped walking and looked up, confused by the non-sequitur. “Okay?” I felt his fury steadily cool as he sat down beside me again. 

“My parents were 28 when they died, and they were _already_ cutting back on performances…”

“And you just turned thirty,” Jason supplied in a whisper. 

I nodded, swallowing hard on the sour acid creeping into my mouth. “You’re right, you know. If I keep doing this, it’s going to kill me. But I honestly never thought I’d live _this_ long. Every day I make it through alive feels like a day on borrowed time. And the older I get, the more I’m ashamed to admit how _terrified_ of dying I really am. So I just keep pushing, keep pretending like I’m invincible. Because actually _acknowledging_ my looming mortality?” I attempted a laugh, but the strangled noise that came out was anything but. “Scares the shit out of me.” 

Jason sighed and dropped his head onto my good shoulder, then wrapped his arm around my waist. “Dying does suck. But you know what’s worse? Dying _alone_. Hell, that’s why we’re doing _this_, isn’t it? So we don’t have to go through hell on our own?”

I leaned into him and nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.” I pressed closer, claiming a small, tender kiss. “Thanks for coming to find me.”

He laughed against my lips and kissed me again. “Don’t be stupid, Dickiebird. I’ll _always_ come and find you.”

— — — — — —

LeGrande took the lead as I was marched into the courthouse, the clipping of her heels echoing off of the marble floor in the rotunda. Beside me, Novak held an iron grip on my elbow, shoving me forward and keeping me off balance. Some of the Enforcers from the steps outside peeled off and took flank positions. Behind us, the ever-present camera crew from the Global News Network kept pace with the tableau before them; a dangerous terrorist, under escort, preparing to receive vengeance and damnation.

The actual courtroom looked nothing like I remembered it. All of the seating had been removed, replaced with a single, raised podium at the center. I wasn’t surprised at the glint of metal - leg irons chained to the floor. This was where the accused would stand. Where _I_ would stand. 

Fully armed and armored Enforcers, motionless, stood on either side of the long, vacant judge’s Bench - the focal point of the room. The wall behind it no longer bore the Gotham crest. In its place hung a massive tapestry of Lex Luthor, edged with fasces. 

_They’re not even trying to be subtle with the fascism angle, are they?_

My gait must have faltered as I took in the room, because Novak grunted and pushed me forward. I stepped up to the podium and did the best imitation of Damian I could manage - regal, arrogant, and aloof - as they shackled my legs to the floor. I refused to give any of them the satisfaction of knowing how much my panic grew by the minute, gnawing in my chest until I was convinced I would suffocate. 

The camera was still rolling, positioned in the corner on its own, dedicated platform, LeGrande gave a nod to a soldier by a door on the back wall. Without any pomp, 5 ‘judges’ entered, and took their seats at the Bench. 

“The Supreme Criminal Tribunal is called to order,” the center justice began, flipping through the pages in front of him before leaning forward and scowling at me. “Richard Grayson. You have violated Terran Code 18 section 2331, and are guilty of Terrorism and Terroristic Threats. You have also committed blatant acts of war against the global government and, pursuant to section 2381, you are guilty of Treason. Inspector Marie LeGrande of Blackgate Penitentiary has gathered sufficient evidence of these charges, and will now submit her recommendation for sentencing and disposition.” He finished his opening statement with a curt acknowledgment of LeGrande, who smiled broadly as she relished in the verdict. Her victory. 

Not like this was ever going to go any other way. Wasn’t even ‘guilty until proven innocent’. I was condemned before I walked through the door. 

This was it. The beginning of the end.

“Thank you, Honorable Justices.” LeGrande looked up at me before continuing, and her face shone with a sadistic, barely restrained glee. “Mr. Grayson was brought into our custody shortly after participating in the bombings of two medical manufacturing facilities. During a routine patrol, he and another terrorist in his cell assaulted an Enforcer and fled. Our forces were able to peacefully subdue him and bring him to Blackgate for evaluation.”

I did my best to appear passively resolute. But I wanted to sigh and roll my eyes. This was only the start of her ‘testimony’. More distortion and outright lies were sure to follow. 

“At his initial assessment,” she continued, “I felt he was a reasonable candidate for our rehabilitation program, particularly because his involvement with known terrorist, Bruce Wayne, began when he was a small child. However, it quickly became apparent that he was beyond redemption. In under a week, he had coerced one of our trainee guards into assisting him in an escape attempt, where several officers were assaulted and the junior officer in question was killed. Over a dozen high risk prisoners _did_ escape, and are still at large. A continuing threat to the citizens of Gotham.” 

Leaden guilt filled my stomach. I _had_ failed to protect Terrance. Failed to rescue the other detainees. Failed to get _myself_ to freedom. And those failures were being broadcast to every television in the world. Laid bare for everyone to see. 

LeGrande wasn’t finished. With a knowing smirk, she resumed her testimony. “It should also be noted that Mr. Grayson has displayed a complete absence of morality and decency. Before he was remanded to my custody, he and his _brother_, Jason Todd…”

She trailed off, suddenly looking behind her, as the ‘judges’ stood, murmuring and exchanging concerned looks. 

I didn’t hear it at first. Probably because my heart was pounding, filling my ears with a deafening _thud, thud_, terrified of what she would say next. Finally, I could make it out. Rapid bursts of gunfire, just outside the courthouse. Small explosions. And a distant, enraged roar. 

Then a crash, as the leaded windows shattered inwards, spraying us all with glass, distracting us from the real danger. Three Molotov cocktails, already setting the hardwood panel walls and heavy damask curtains ablaze. 

LeGrande shrieked and bolted for the door, followed closely by the justices and their cadre of Enforcers. To his credit, Novak glanced up at me, bristling with irritation, before starting to unfasten my shackles. 

“Officer Novak!” LeGrande was yelling now, struggling to be heard above the din of the spreading flames. “We need to go! Now! Leave him!” She rolled her eyes and scoffed, as if it were the obvious course of action. He hesitated for another second, and I exploited what I thought was a crisis of conscience. 

“Just leave the key. Please. You don’t have to help me, just leave the key.”

Waiting another heartbeat, considering, he pulled the key off the loop and held it up. With a savage smile, he tossed it onto the floor, out of reach. Then he shrugged, mockingly covering his mouth, following up with a sarcastic ‘oops’. 

I stared at him, not surprised at his utter lack of humanity, as he turned on his heel and jogged out of the room. LeGrande didn’t even look at me as she closed the door behind them. 

The smoke was getting so thick in the air I could barely see, and I knelt down as far as I could go against the floor of the podium, gasping at the vanishingly small amount of breathable air. I worked my sweat-slicked wrists against the biting metal of the cuffs behind my back. Expending precious energy and oxygen. There was little choice. I wouldn’t be able to work on the leg irons without my hands. 

_This is taking too long. Work faster or you’re going to die._

Finally, with a choked scream, I pulled one wrist free. But time was up. I felt my throat clench down around each breath of hot, smoky air. Panicking, I pulled uselessly at the chains keeping me in place. The effort just made my situation worse, and my lungs felt like they were on fire with each gasp until I couldn’t take any more. 

_Jason said you wouldn’t die alone. He promised he would always come for you. He’s coming. He’ll be here. He’ll…_


	19. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Sorry for the delay! 
> 
> I realize I said this MAY be the last chapter, but it most certainly isn’t. This story has gotten a mind of its own! 
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with me!

__

_ **Jason Todd** _

“This is fucking bullshit. You know that, right? The waiting? We should be out there _now_, ready to grab him as soon as we can.”

I leaned on the counter in a small, run-down apartment on the Eastside. One of our fellow ‘insurgents’ had offered it up as a base of operations. You couldn’t beat the location. Just a few blocks away from the courthouse we were preparing to storm. 

“There’s a specific timeline to this, Jason,” Tim huffed, never turning his attention away from the live broadcast on the TV in front of him. “Anyway, he’s only _just_ pulling up. This is mostly ‘pregame’ hype.”

Selina sighed and tried to reason with me. “What if Duke was right? What if this is all a trap? Then we can’t afford to be out there too soon. It won’t do Dick _any_ good if we end up getting ourselves caught.” She checked over the equipment we had left, adding it to the stash some of the others in our group had scavenged. 

“Right,” I scoffed, “let’s pretend _that’s_ the reason we’re holed up in here with our thumbs up our asses. That it’s _not_ because Bruce wants to turn this into some galvanizing, revolutionary moment, consequences be damned. In case you all forgot, they’re going to _kill_ him! Murder him for their own sick reasons and make _us_ watch! Fuck!” 

I wasn’t angry. Not really. I was just terrified, wanted this done, wanted Dick back safe. Wanted this whole goddamn nightmare to be _over_. But Tim didn’t see that. He just saw my rage, and a challenge he wouldn’t back down from. 

“You’re acting like you’re the only one here who’s worried about him!” Tim got to his feet, livid. “He’s _our_ brother, too! Our _family_! We love him just as much as you do!” 

Damian made an uncomfortable noise and shifted his attention to his feet. “Perhaps our time would be better spent _preparing_ instead of bickering.” 

“Fuck that,” I spat. “And fuck all of you. I can’t believe _none_ of you are willing to stick your necks out for Dick unless Bruce gives you his stamp of approval.” My voice was practically smothered in disdain. I grabbed my bag angrily. “You’re all fucking cowards. And if you won’t go out there _now_ and save him, I _will_. I’m tired of waiting for Bruce’s approval.” 

From the door behind me, I heard Bruce growl. As always, the Old Man had _impeccable_ timing. “You will stay put, Jason. We _will_ bring him home…”

I was tired of his shit, and I interrupted with a savage smile, “Really, Bruce? Well forgive me if I don’t trust you on this one. After all, you’ve got a track record of being _too fucking late_.” 

That was a low blow. Bordering on cruel. I didn’t give a damn. He rocked back on his heels, his face contorted into an expression that seemed close to regret. But at least he didn’t stop me as I pushed past him and out the door. I was sick to death of sitting on my ass. So I stormed down the stairs, out of the building, and into the quickly crowding streets. Popping the hood of my sweatshirt up, I blended into the masses of insurgents already screaming their way toward the courthouse. 

_Surprise, surprise. Looks like Bruce’s timeline was off. Revolution came early._

— — — — — —

_Before_

I wish I could say that having a trusted bed partner made my constant flood of nightmares _better_. But even weeks after I ‘unofficially’ moved in with Dick, and graduated from the couch to his bedroom, they just kept coming.

Hell, they might’ve been _worse_. 

Probably didn’t help that we _both_ had them. Didn’t help that his cries wove themselves into my dreams, and I’d wake up, sobbing, afraid I’d lost him. Convinced that whatever gruesome scenario my brain manufactured was _real_. 

Sometimes it was more than I could take. His screams. My thrashing. His violent outbursts if I woke him. My blind swings that connected too often when he tried to soothe _me_. So on bad nights, mine or his, I’d drag myself out of bed and sit at the kitchen table, blankly staring at the clock over the stove and waiting for the sun to come up. 

It wasn’t a habit I wanted to let him in on. For fucks sake, he apologized for _days_ when I accidentally punched him in the nose after he woke me mid night-terror . This was my ritual. For me. For _us_. 

So of course he found out about it. 

It had been another bad night in a string of bad ones. I ended up reflexively shoving Dick off the bed when he curled up against me, looking for just a crumb of comfort. Once I got him settled, got him to stop saying ‘I’m sorry’ for _my_ fuck up, got him to fall back asleep, I padded out to the kitchen and took my familiar spot, where I would watch the minutes slip away. 

Maybe I dozed off, because I didn’t hear him behind me until he whispered a tentative, “hey, you awake?” 

Irrational anger surged up against his gentle gesture. “I swear to God, if you came out here to apologize _again_, Dick…” I trailed off, letting the empty threat just hang there. 

“_Tato lapte ta pattriensis_ ,” he replied in Romani. As if that actually _meant_ something to me. Then he set about pulling out a pot, grabbing things from the fridge, and rummaging around in the cabinets. 

“What are you doing?” The sharpness in my voice had dulled a little, and I watched with mild, tired interest as he busied himself in the kitchen. 

He just smiled that breathtaking smile of his and kept working. In under ten minutes he placed a steaming mug in front of me. Then he grabbed one for himself and sat down, too. Tentatively, I took a sip. 

“Warm milk? And what is this, cinnamon and nutmeg?” I scoffed, then regretted it, as I watched some of the cheer on his face dim. 

“We both know you haven’t been sleeping well. How long’s it been, Jay? Since you’ve had a solid night?” He worried the hot mug in his hands and tried to smile again, switching tactics when I scowled at him. “There was a fire-eater who used to watch me some nights when my parents needed ‘alone time’. She swore by this stuff. Though I’m not convinced she didn’t put brandy in it, too. Regardless, it would get me to sleep every time.”

“I’m pretty sure booze would put _any_ six year old on his ass, but ok.” Lack of sleep was making me surly, and I honestly just wanted him to go back to bed so I could stop _hurting_ him. Here he was, heart in his hand, sharing a piece of his childhood with me and I was pissing all over it with my sarcasm. 

He sighed and lowered his head. Trying so fucking hard to be there for me, even though I was making it as difficult as possible. “Look, why don’t I just take the couch tonight,” he suggested. “We can figure out better sleeping arrangements once we’re more rested. Go to bed, _Jason_.” There was a Bruce-like edge in his voice where the tenderness had been. A fact that only served to irritate me more. 

“Fine. Whatever,” I snapped. 

He took two long strides toward the living room before turning back to face me. “Why are you so angry at me right now?”

Hell of a good question, actually. Sure, I was sleep deprived and grouchy, but that didn’t explain the tight ache in my chest that screamed at me to lash out at him. 

To push him away. 

I shook my head and clenched my eyes shut. “Do you know what mine are about? The nightmares? You’d think it would be Joker, or my time with the League, or any one of the fucked up things I’ve lived and died through, right? They used to be about that, but now?” 

His posture shifted - not rigid and frustrated anymore. Instead he seemed soft, open, accepting. Everything I loved about him. Carefully, he sat back down at the table and waited for me to continue. But he didn’t rush me. Didn’t press, or fidget, or sigh. Just sat there, patient and kind. Even though I didn’t deserve _half_ the grace he was giving me. Hell, after the shit I’d been putting him through? My bad tempers and sharp tongue? I didn’t deserve the time of day, but Dickie _always_ gave me his forgiving heart. 

I sat, gulping in the silence, trying to find the words, before giving in to the growing tension and blurting out, “it’s you. They’re about you. Losing you, seeing you in pain and I can’t _get_ to you, can’t _fix_ it. Fucked up, vivid images of you dying in my arms. And with our life? The shit we do?” I huffed, then shook my head, doing my best to avoid looking at his too-wet eyes. “Those nightmares aren’t far-fetched. It’s just a matter of time. Fuck…” I blinked against my own tears, willing them away even as they welled up and spilled down my cheeks. “You're my _everything_, Dickie. I don’t think I knew what that really felt like before you. And it scares me. _Needing_ someone like this. I don’t want to fuck this up, and it feels like that’s _exactly_ what I’m doing.”

Sighing, he turned his head away. And, for what seemed like far too long, he wouldn’t look at me. Just stared off, unreadable. Made me fucking nervous - Dick was usually like an open book to me. 

Then he finally reached for my hand and faced me, blinking against his own tears. “You’re not fucking this up, Jay. I…” He winced, swallowed whatever he was going to say, then angrily wiped his face with the heels of his palms. “You don’t need to worry about me, promise. Get some sleep.” Without another word, he stood, dumped his untouched mug of milk in the sink, and padded to the living room. 

I headed back to bed. And even though I was exhausted, I just stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep. I could only keep replaying the worst of my nightmares over and over again. Dreams where I clutched Dick’s broken body to my chest and howled like a wild animal, drowning in my grief. Huffing, I pulled myself back out of bed and went to find him. I just wanted to see him, watch him sleep in safety. 

I found him sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, staring blankly at the wall. I flopped down beside him and pulled him close, smiling as he relaxed against me. 

“Ain’t we a pair,” I whispered into his hair. 

He gave a half-hearted chuckle and snuggled closer. “I guess we are. I’m sorry if I made things worse. I just… I just want you to be happy, Jay.”

I tilted his chin up and looked at him, “are you kidding? You’ve made my life better in every possible way. And as long as you stay safe, I’ll always be happy. No matter what.”

— — — — — —

_After_

By the time I reached the courthouse, the streets were _already_ a battlefield. Swarms of people just _consumed_ Enforcers. Like some kind of fucked up magic trick. Now you see ‘em, now you don’t. Seemed like one thing didn’t change, even after war and famine and totalitarianism - the people of Gotham were fucking _savage_. But there’s a problem with mob mentality. It always goes just a _little_ too far.

I waded through the stampede as best I could, and finally got some breathing room around back. Only a few miscreants in the alley there, laughing to themselves. 

“Hey, hey buddy!” One _very_ drunk teenager clapped me on the shoulder. “Didja know a Molotov cocktail _isn’t_ a drink? Crazy, right? I only know cause… cause… wait why do I know that Mikey?”

“Cause we just chucked a bunch of ‘em inside, dumbass!” 

My stomach felt like it was drenched in ice. “You _what?!_” 

I grabbed the kids collar and shook him. Hard. His terrified and disoriented eyes bulged as he stared at me, stammering. “Yeah...yeah we...we just thought. Buncha people were in there and we thought…”

“Where?!” I snarled

“Back… back around the side. We didn’t think we were doing anything bad. Really!” His reply was breathless, a hell of a lot more sober than just a few seconds ago. I dropped him to the ground and took off at a sprint, rounding the corner and taking in the sight of the flames licking out of the broken windows. I raised my arm to my face, trying to shield it from the fire as I peered into the blazing room. A figure I couldn’t _quite_ make out was collapsed on the floor, coughing and choking…

_Dick…_

No time for thinking. I plunged through the broken window, ignoring the pain as shards of glass dug into my arms and legs. It couldn’t matter. Not now. As I got closer I could see why Dick hadn’t escaped - he was chained to the floor. Chained to the goddamn floor and they just _left_ him to burn alive. I swallowed my rage and got to work, slamming my foot down on the manacles until they broke. Part of me registered that Dick wasn’t moving - passive and listless - as I scooped him into my arms and charged out of the door. Out of the courthouse. Into the frigid city air. 

Chaos, battle, screams, gunfire… it all faded away as I gently laid Dick down on the hard granite just outside the engulfed courthouse. His face was covered in soot, his hair and clothes were drenched in sweat. And I suddenly felt sick when I noticed something else - he wasn’t breathing. _Fuck._ He should have been gagging, coughing, wheezing. His body should have been trying to draw in oxygen reflexively. But he was just _there_, quiet and still and…

Any other sentimental thoughts were crushed under the instinctual training that suddenly took over. He. Wasn’t. _Breathing_. I had to act. 

I tilted his head back, forcing myself to focus on his _need_ and not the deep, painful-looking bruises on his throat. 

_God. What did those fuckers do to you?_

I pressed my lips against his, keeping a firm hold on his chin, and watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath I gave him. Shaking, I paused to press two fingers to his carotid and almost cried in relief when I felt a pulse. Weak, fast, but _there_. His heart was still working. He just needed me to breathe for him. 

_I can do that for you, Dickie. I’ve got you._

More rescue breaths. Rising panic clenched around my heart. It wasn’t working. He wasn’t coming around. I was too late, he was dying… 

Then, finally, I heard it, felt it. A gasp. A cough. Dick’s eyes fluttered open, his brows knitted together, and he choked out, “Jay…”

“It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re safe.” I tried to soothe him, but he just tugged on my sleeve, and his wheezes got more desperate. Looking pointedly over my shoulder, he shook his head and repeated in a rasp, “Jay…” 

Slowly, too slowly, I looked back at whatever his terrified gaze was fixed on. Behind me stood a woman. Her tailored suit was disheveled, and her hair was falling out of her tight bun, but I’d recognize her anywhere. I’d burned her face into my memory the night I watched _that_ broadcast in horror. _She_ had given the order to beat Dickie half-dead. Inspector Fucking LeGrande. Her hands were still, her expression cold, as she leveled the barrel of a gun at my head. 

“I had a feeling this would bring you all out of the woodwork. Like roaches. Or plague rats.” Her face contorted in disgust and rage. “Look at the _destruction_ you and your ilk have caused. I will restore _order_.” 

I felt frozen - caught off guard by the sudden shift from relief to fear. But, even half-cooked and gasping, Dick was faster than me. He was always faster. With a sharp, painful-looking inhale, he sat up and shoved my shoulder, pushing me into the crowd, just as LeGrande tightened her finger on the trigger. Like a nightmare, I struggled, too slowly, back up the stone stairs and broke free of the mob. Just enough to hear gunfire, and watch Dick fall hard onto the granite beneath him. 

Desperate, enraged, I tried to push forward to get to him, to _kill_ her, but the sound of the shot triggered a stampede. Terrified bodies pushed into me from all directions. Between shoulders and over heads, I saw Dick try to sit up again, but LeGrande stepped over to him, placed a foot on his chest to hold him in place, and aimed the gun at his head. Point blank range. Dickie winced as he turned to face me, and even though I couldn’t hear him, I watched his lips form the words, _”I love you. I’m sorry. Don’t watch.”_

“No, no! Fuck, no!” I screamed as I shoved hard against the people closing me in and pinning me in place. Only a few feet away. I could make it. I had to make it. There was no choice. 

I lunged, kicking off of whatever poor sap was behind me, and slammed into LeGrande before she could manage the next shot. Furious, I wrenched the gun from her grip and hit her. Again and again. She scrambled to her feet, blood pouring from her nose, and staggered back. Right into the seething, riotous crowd behind her. I watched with sick, gleeful fascination as the crazed mob tore into her, clawing at her skin before trampling her beneath their feet. 

There was no time to bask in the victory. I ran back to Dick, slid to my knees, and cradled him in my arms. He was limp, bleeding. Shivering from blood loss or his soaked clothes, I wasn’t sure. Crimson blossomed across his damp prison greys, spreading down from the hole near his collarbone.

“No. Oh, no. Dickie, please,” I begged, holding him tight. Out of my mind, lost on the edges of panic and desperation, I pressed my hands down onto his wound, biting against targetless rage as I felt bones in his chest shift. Broken ribs, from whatever hell they had put him through. 

A familiar voice strained to pull me back from the brink of hopelessness. 

“Jason. Jason!”

Still in shock, murmuring into Dick’s hair and begging him to be ok, I flicked my eyes up to see just who the hell was yelling at me. Bruce. Of _course_ he’d show up when there was nothing he could _do_. He knelt down into my line of sight and grabbed my arm.

Behind him, the rest of ‘family’ shoved past the violent crowd of agitators, horrified. As always, fury crushed my fear and I held onto Dick, very aware that he was bleeding out under my hands. “You’re all too fucking _late_! I told you we had to be here and you wouldn’t listen!” 

Tim crouched down beside Dick, listened to his pained wheezes and watched the blood seep out from under my palms. “He needs a hospital, Bruce,” he looked up, imploring the Old Man, “He’s dying. But I don’t think we can take him, all the medical facilities are government-run, now. They’ll execute him on sight.” 

Bruce tensed, then shook his head. “Let’s get him up. We’ll get him back to Alfred. See what he can do.” He reached out, preparing to slip his hands under Dick and lift him. I shoved Bruce away and scooped Dickie up myself, fighting against sobs as I realized just how _easy_ it had gotten to carry him, just how _fragile_ he felt in my arms. His head sagged against my chest and his labored breathing was a constant reminder of how _badly_ he needed attention. 

“Fuck you,” I spat at Bruce. “Tim says he needs a hospital, I’m _taking_ him to a hospital. And if they lay a goddamn finger on him to hurt him, I’ll kill them.”


	20. Stay

__

**Dick Grayson**

_Breathe. Breathe. You can do it. Inhale. Exhale. You know the drill…_

I wasn’t sure if the voice was in my head, or if someone was actually talking to me. Regardless, I tried. Tried to drag air in through my scorched throat, only to cough and choke as my body fought against the agony that was simply _breathing_. I felt like I was freezing and sweltering in turns, and beyond the ringing in my ears I could hear someone yelling. 

“Move! Get the _fuck_ out of the way!” 

_Jay…_

“It’s ok. Relax, Dickie. I’ve got you, we’re gonna get help.” 

Unsettling fear crept around the edges of his voice, and I could feel his arms trembling under me as he cradled me against his chest, jostling as he picked up speed into a jog. I bit my lip and tried not to scream as his hands pressed on my still-healing ribs and seared-off skin, but failed. I cried out feebly before my voice devolved into excruciating, labored hacking. 

“I know. I know. It’s gonna be ok. You’re gonna be ok. Just a little longer.” 

I was very familiar with the sound of Jay’s voice when he was lying. Even through his panic, even through my muddled and waning consciousness, I could hear it clearly. A lie of mercy, because he knew as well as I did that I was dying. I forced myself to open my eyes, reach up and touch his face. He was alive, he was ok. LeGrande didn’t hurt him. I did what I had to do to keep him safe. 

It was worth it. 

He looked so scared. I wanted to tell him it would be alright. That he was strong. That he deserved better than me, anyway. Better than my fickle devotion and skittish love. But he was entirely focused on the futile attempt to _fix_ me and bring me back from the brink. How could I tell him that I knew I was doomed weeks ago, when a poorly planned explosion and errant shrapnel sealed my fate? 

He pulled me tight and tucked close around me as the sound of automatic gunfire cut through the din. Blearily, I looked out through the crook of Jay’s arm, horrified to see what was happening. 

Reinforcements. A new team of Enforcers. Fully outfitted and armed to the teeth. The bodies of once-enraged, fed-up Gothamites lay in the streets as the soldiers pushed forward, mowing down anyone in their path. Panting heavily, Jay hurtled us into an alley and leaned against the moldering brick wall. 

Cautiously, he peeked around the jagged corner, and I felt the rise and fall of his chest even out, slow, relax. Just a bit. Just enough. I struggled to keep my eyes open, if only to see the worried attempt at a reassuring smile as he noticed my half-dazed staring. “Hospital’s two blocks away. _Two blocks_, Dickie. We’re going to make it. You’ll be ok. Promise.” 

“The others are working their way to Gotham General, and plan to regroup there. What’s his condition?” Another voice, the speaker out of sight, joined us in the alley. Damian. His controlled, tight words did nothing to camouflage the fact that he felt every bit the terrified seventeen year-old he really was. 

Jay glanced at me, his face blurring in and out of my rapidly narrowing vision. “He’s ok. He’s going to be ok. Once the Enforcers move a little more, I’m ducking out behind them and running for it. We’re going to make it.” Another lie, one he was desperate to believe. 

Hell, I wanted to believe it, too. 

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours. I had no way of marking the passage of time as my consciousness compressed down to focus on the barest needs - breathing. I was lucky. My chest ached, but my lungs didn’t feel singed. My _throat_ was another story. Tiny gulps of air felt like they were filled with razor wire, raking over my battered and burned airway. Each inhale got incrementally harder, like a vise clamping down. And as I felt Jay take off in a sprint, I weakly dug my fingers into his soot-covered leather jacket. My eyes slid shut, blotting out the blur of people, and I wished, more than anything, that I could get my voice to croak out one last “I love you.” Because even if we _did_ make it, past Enforcers and into the hospital, nobody in their right mind would risk their life to treat a ‘terrorist’. So I held on tight, relished the feeling of being close to Jay again, and slipped into darkness. 

The jarring cacophony surrounding the hospital brought me back to the surface again. Sirens blared, voices screamed, and Jason slowed his pace, weaving through the dense crowd of wounded citizens. The ambulance access doors _whooshed_ open, and a blast of warm air rushed out as Jay carried me over the threshold and into the Emergency Department. Guards at the entrance eyed us with suspicion, glaring as they leaned into their shoulder-mounted radios. It wouldn’t be long before they figured out who we were and why we were here. Jason, Damian, and me. We were practically delivering ourselves to the slaughterhouse. With Dami leading the way, we rounded corners, ducked through hallways, and finally, _finally_ I felt a cool, padded surface under my bruised, burned body as Jay laid me down on an unoccupied gurney in the packed corridor. 

“I should intercept the others,” Damian said at last, “they will want a status update, and it would be prudent to keep them away from the hospital for now. The fewer of us that are here, the less conspicuous we’ll be.” Hesitating, he squeezed my hand, “I trust Todd will ensure you receive adequate care in my absence. I will return. See that you don’t die, Richard.” Without any real ‘goodbye’, he slipped into the crowd of people, injured and dying, shoulder to shoulder in the hallway.

And then it was just Jay and me. 

“You should go, too,” I managed to rasp. “They’re going to kill you.” 

He shook his head, shushing me gently as he combed his fingers through my hair. “They’re _going_ to help us. I’m going to _make them_ help us.” With a furtive glance behind him, he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Trust me.” 

I closed my eyes, and whispered into the frantic chaos around us, “Always.”

— — — — — — 

_Before_

It should have come as no surprise to me that Jason and I had _very_ different ideas on how to actually _help_ the people of Gotham, after the bombings. On one hand, we complemented each other perfectly; I protected the innocent, and he punished the guilty. But in the dark, ashy world after nuclear devastation, I think I was the only one who saw everything in shades of grey.

Jason, on the other hand…

“Move, _Nightwing_.”

The growled command was weighted with a seriousness I honestly hadn’t heard since we started our ‘relationship’. I stood between an armed Jay and a cowering, terrified man, shaking and clutching his knees. Caught in the act of selling God knows _what_ drugs to anyone who would buy them. Of course, the buyers he pushed them on were teens - kids really - and that’s always been a bit of a hot-button issue for The Red Hood. 

He aimed a gun, loaded with what I hoped were rubber bullets, directly at my chest. But he wasn’t threatening me. I knew that he would never put me in any _real_ danger. His rage was intimidating all the same. 

“You’re _really_ going to protect this _scum_?” Jason’s arms tensed, the only indication I had that he was struggling. His metered control, a mastery of walking the line between necessary violence and cruelty, was slipping. Apparently the stress of the ‘end of the world’ was playing up his Lazarus-induced anger-management issues. 

I took a step, then another, closer to Jason, tucking my shoulders back and leveling my chin. “Put the gun down, Hood. Everyone is _desperate_ right now. People aren’t thinking straight. And neither are you. Look what you’re doing.” I flattened my palm on my chest. “Look who you’re pointing at.” I was close enough now to implore in a hush, “Put it down, Jay. Hurting him won’t help anyone.”

He was trembling, his hand uncharacteristically unsteady on the grip of his weapon. I pressed closer, squeezing his arms tight to steady him. Then I shot a look over my shoulder at the man still groveling for his life on the pavement. “No repeat performances, got it?” I warned him. “I can’t promise I’ll be your human shield next time.”

That, of course, was a lie. Obviously I would stand between a civilian and a bullet, no matter _who_ was shooting. But I needed him _gone_, so I jerked my chin down the street behind us and muttered, “scram.” The guy didn’t respond. Eyes still flitting between me and Jason. Terrified. Not registering anything I was saying. Fully in the grips of an unhoned adrenaline burst. 

_Damnit. Don’t have time for this._

I let go of Jay and crouched down in front of the would-be drug dealer, holding a hand out. “It’s ok. You’re ok. Just go on home. And as long as you don’t do this again, we won’t have any problems.” I would have celebrated the victory of the guy nodding and taking the offer of help up, except I heard Jay turn on his heel behind me and take off.

_Fantastic._

Excruciating minutes passed as I helped the guy get his feet under him, then let him go with another warning to _never_ deal again. On any other day, I might’ve helped him home, made sure he had provisions and a warm place to sleep. But I wanted to find Jay, make sure he was ok. Try and find a middle ground between our philosophies before an argument broke out. Again. 

After an hour of searching nearby bolt holes and safe houses, I gave up and headed home, planning to wait him out. It wasn’t the first time he’d stalked off for brooding time alone, and he’d always stumble in around dawn, exhausted. 

This night was different. 

I slid through the window of my - _our _\- apartment and heard him grumbling angrily in the bedroom. I walked closer to the threshold, the sounds of slamming drawers and rustling cloth growing louder, and pushed open the door. I felt my chest tighten in sorrow and confusion when I saw what he was doing - packing a bag. 

“Jay...?” 

He looked up abruptly, and only for a moment, before he returned to his task. In those few seconds I could see so much fear and anger. “Jase, talk to me. What’s going on?” I put my hand on his arm, but he pulled it away violently. Zipping the duffle with finality, he slung it over his shoulder and pushed past me, heading for the door. 

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re angry at me. I had a lot of options in that situation tonight, and I should have found a solution that didn’t pit us against one another. But running isn’t going to solve _anything_. We need to talk about this.” I quickly stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the front entrance. He scowled, then turned for the fire escape instead. 

“Please, Jason.” I stood, rooted in place, as he tugged up on the window. “Please stay.” 

He paused, half out of the apartment, and finally looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “Why?” 

I wanted, more than anything, to make this ok. To tell him what he meant to me, make amends for my screw ups. Instead I fumbled, and only found the words, “Why not?” 

He grimaced, anger flashing to the surface as he pulled himself back inside. “I pointed a loaded gun at your fucking chest, Dick! Even with rubber bullets, I could’ve _killed_ you at that range! Just so I could get at some… idiot dealer! I have done horrible things to you. I _keep_ doing horrible things to you. And you seem to think I can change because, what? Because we thought, for one day, the world was ending, and I decided to _use_ you to comfort me? Christ, Dick!” He raked his hand through his hair and looked at me, his rage draining away, leaving a desperate sadness in its place. “I am screwed up, Dickie. I will _always_ be screwed up. And I love you enough to walk away before I screw you up, too.” 

“Oh, Jay…” I crossed the room and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him close and resting my forehead on his. “You are _not_ screwed up. And you know what? I wasn’t afraid you’d hurt me today. Not for one second. Because I _trust_ you. More than I’ve trusted anyone in my entire life. You are amazing, and you are _good_ and I…” 

_Just say it. Just tell him you love him. Tell him you don’t want to spend another minute without him. That you need him._

But I couldn’t. Even though my heart ached. So I finished with the closest words I could grasp, “I have never felt this _safe_ with anyone else. Ever. As long as we have each other, we’ll be ok. So please… please don’t go. I want you to stay.” 

Carefully, he leaned in, and a trembling breath warmed my cheek. “Ok. I’ll stay. For you, Dick. If you’re _sure_” He pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. “I’ll do _anything_ for you. I love you.”

— — — — — —

_After_

“I’m sorry. We’re under very strict orders to deny services to _any_ insurgents. You’ll have to try your luck at another hospital. Our resources are dedicated to wounded Enforcers _only_. My hands are tied.” In spite of the dismissal, the harried doctor, locked under Jay’s grip on her arm, leaned into my limited view. “Oh. It’s _you_! From the Tribunal!” Genuine surprise overrode her exhausted expression, and she glanced around before leaning in and examining me closer. “What happened?”

“Your _illustrious_ government officials left him to burn alive,” Jay answered with contempt, “and when _that_ didn’t take, they shot him in the chest.” 

She prodded my side, ignoring Jay’s commentary, and I rasped out a pained cry. My body tensed, then was wracked with choking, hacking gasps. The doctor narrowed her eyes. “His ribs are broken, too. He might have internal injuries.” Gently, this time, she tutted as she pulled at the open, coagulating hole just under my right collarbone. Her gloved fingers then found their way under my shoulder, and she seemed to sigh in relief. “You’re a lucky SOB,” she remarked, “this is a through-and-through, and it’s not bleeding nearly enough to be _too_ serious. But your airway sounds _badly_ burned. Lots of burns on your chest and legs, too. If you don’t get some breathing support soon…” she trailed off, suspiciously threw a glance behind her back again, then abruptly stepped away from the gurney. 

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I wish I could… but it’s not just _my_ life on the line here.” She turned and addressed Jason before he could argue, “_Anyone_ who treats him could face execution for aiding and abetting a so-called ‘terrorist’.” She reached into the pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a few glass vials of medicine and a large syringe. “This is the best I can do,” she said sympathetically, pressing the containers into Jason’s hands. She hushed her voice and leaned toward him, but I could still make out her instructions. “It’s morphine. Take him home. Make him comfortable. _When_ his breathing gets worse, and it will, give him _all_ of this. There’s no need for him to suffer.” 

“You want me to _euthanize_ him?! Are you insane?!” Jason was furious, barely keeping his voice low, though he still drew the stares of a few nurses in the chaotic hallway. 

“Do you want him to drown in his own fluids? Suffocate when his throat closes from the swelling? Die of an infection from his third degree burns?” Furiously, the doctor shot back. “Because that’s what’s going to happen. And it’s a slow, excruciating way to go.”

“I _want_ you to save him. Or at least fucking _try_!” Jason’s chest heaved, and even though I was barely hanging on to consciousness, I could tell he was fighting against tears more than rage. “Please. You have to save him. He’s… he’s all I have. He’s everything.” 

The pain was getting to be too much. I clutched the rail of the gurney tight. My fingers bit down on the cold metal as each inhale felt like it tore a path to my lungs. I didn’t want Jay to see how much it hurt, didn’t want him to have to make the impossible choice the doctor had given him - let me languish in agony until I died, or finish it with his own hands. 

Tears slid down my cheeks, and I felt Jason’s face near mine, kissing them away. “It’s ok. It’ll be ok. I’m here. Just hang on… if they won’t help you here we’ll try somewhere else. Just stay with me…” He was pleading, begging me to keep trying. So I did, even as he began to lift me back up, and the pressure on my seeping, open burns was once again unbearable. 

The doctor sighed. “Shit. Fine. Put him down. Closest hospital is halfway across town. You’ll never make it. Let me get you a room out of the way. Stay put.” 

Barely nodding in acknowledgement, Jay carefully laid me on the gurney again, and took my face in his cool palms, rubbing soothing circles on my cheeks with his thumbs. “See, Dickiebird? I _told_ you they’d help us. You’re going to be just fine.”

I had never seen that look on Jason’s face before. An anguished, pleading, childlike heartbreak. One that spoke of the betrayal of loss and abandonment that Jay had lived through far too often. A look that said, _”please don’t leave me,” _ when it was all but inevitable. 

He straightened up, and pulled the vials of morphine out of his pocket. Closed his eyes and fought back tears. Then whispered, “if it gets too bad. If you want me to… if you _need_ me to…” He crushed the growing sob in his throat. 

God, he looked so small. So _afraid_. So lost. 

I forced an approximation of a reassuring smile past the agony, then shook my head and gasped out, “not that bad… I’m ok.” He looked unconvinced, but offered a beleaguered smile in return. 

Hurriedly, he jammed the morphine back into his pocket as the doctor rounded the corner, looking over her shoulder. She threw a bundle of cloth at Jay. “It’s a uniform. Put it on. And get him in a gown. If I can pass you off as Enforcers I can help you.” As Jason pulled the bloodied regimentals over his own clothes, the doctor started an IV, then leaned down to whisper, “Every doctor and nurse in this hospital is rooting for you. We’ve got your back. So you are _not_ allowed to die. Is that understood?” 

My eyes fluttered shut and my world went black before I was able to answer.


	21. Ebbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been quite a while since I’ve updated, and I feel like I owe readers an explanation. Some of you who follow my Tumblr already know some of this. 
> 
> I have bipolar disorder. And I have not been stable recently. After a personal encounter that also triggered some of my more severe PTSD symptoms, I rapidly cycled through a severe, suicidal depression, followed by a psychotic manic episode resulting in hospitalization. 
> 
> Much of my attention has been on stabilization. I’ve begun some new medications, including an antipsychotic, but the side effects are difficult to grapple with. The one that most affects my writing is cognitive impairment. I’m slower, mentally, and words seem to slip out of my grasp. 
> 
> This chapter, then, took a significant amount of time to piece together, and it is still not where I would like it. But I also think I need to accept that updates may be glacial, and my work may be different than before. 
> 
> This story will be completed eventually. I can’t promise when. And I can’t promise any additional work in the future. I am very much taking things a day at a time. 
> 
> With that said, here is the next chapter! Thank you for your love, support, and patience.

_ **** _ ****

** _Jason Todd_ **

Dust covered the filing cabinets and defunct medical equipment in the ‘out-of-the-way’ room we wheeled Dickie’s gurney into. More a closet than a sterile procedure area, even though the doctor (Rebecca, she had insisted) assured me it would work for what we needed. I leaned against the door, guarding it, while I watched her do her job, and I tried to ignore the whimpers of pain that bubbled out of Dick’s closing throat even though he’d been tanked up on sedatives and painkillers. 

Rebecca was efficient. Almost as soon as we made it to our hiding spot, she got to it, tearing into an intubation kit and tilting Dick’s chin back. With a poorly concealed grimace, she guided the tube into his airway, and secured the other end to a small, utilitarian device that I assumed was a ventilator. “Not going to lie to you,” she sighed as she moved on to treat the worst of his burns, “his airway is pretty bad off, and that ventilator is meant for transportation only. I can’t make any guarantees that _anything_ I do for him will work.”

I meant to grunt in reply. A distressed, strangled sound came out instead. 

“But,” she continued, running her hand along Dick’s bruised neck, “whoever did _this_ might’ve actually done him a favor. His trachea was likely _already_ swelling before the smoke inhalation. That probably protected his lungs from the worst of it.” 

Pulling off her gloves, she finally looked up at me. “Make no mistake, this is a Hail Mary. He needs an x-ray, intensive care in a burn unit, and possibly surgery. I can’t get him _any_ of that quickly. Hopefully all of this will stabilize him long enough for the commotion to die down, then we can get to it. I have to get back out there before I’m missed and people get suspicious.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do if he gets worse before then?” I tried not to sound desperate, but I _was_, and I was too exhausted to hide it. 

Her hand on the door, she spared a last, sympathetic look. “You _know_ what to do. Make him comfortable and say goodbye.” She didn’t give me a chance to fight back, and she slipped out of the room without another word. 

The adrenaline that had pushed me to rescue Dick and bring him here was washing away, and I was left with an aching, spent dread that tugged down on my limbs. As quietly as possible, I dragged a heavy box of papers to the side of Dick’s gurney and flopped down on it, grateful for any surface that could catch me and keep me close to him. I wove my fingers between his and rested my head beside his arm. 

“This is _not_ how it ends for us,” I whispered against his shoulder, “you hear me? It doesn’t fucking end like this.” 

I wanted to give in to the crash, let the fatigue that came from days of worry pull me under into a sleep where I didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel scared, or like I was standing on the edge of loneliness once again. But I couldn’t. So I just listened to the _click-woosh_ of the ventilator, dozed, and waited. 

I wasn’t sure how long I was slumped on the bed, holding Dickie’s hand, before I heard it. Heavy boots slowed to a halt outside the door, and I was on my feet, fists clenching, before I even registered _why_. The handle jiggled, and I squared my stance. If they were coming for Dick, I’d be damned if I was going to make it easy. 

Light spilled into the dim room, and two large, imposing figures in uniforms stood, framed in the doorway, their features obscured by the bright fluorescents in the hallway. I bared my teeth, prepared to lunge. But, gently, they closed the door behind them. Relief, and an all-too-familiar anger warred in my chest. I stood there, panting, staring at the people before me. 

Bruce and Damian. Outfitted in Enforcer’s kit. 

“What are you _doing_ here,” I hissed. “If you gave away our hiding spot I fucking swear…”

Bruce cut me off with a sweep of his hand, and I suppressed a snarl. So goddamn _superior_. He didn’t belong here. I didn’t _want_ him here. 

“We came as soon as the riots had abated, somewhat,” he offered as an explanation. “Ran into a doctor who recognized me and said she’d helped Dick. She brought us here. I wanted to see him before…”

“Before _nothing_,” I snapped. “If this is you coming to say _goodbye_ then you can fucking leave. He’s not going _anywhere_. You don’t...”

_You don’t know him like I do. You don’t know how impossibly strong he really is. _

Bruce sighed. “I know, Jason. _None_ of us want to give up. But you have to know when it’s time to let go.”

“Fuck that,” I spat, “and fuck you.”

— — — — — —

__

_Before_

The manor was never much, to me. Didn’t feel like home when I lived there - too huge, too _much_. I was surprised when Dickie told me he _got_ it. 

“I grew up in a trailer that I shared with my parents, Jay. I slept _under_ my bed for months after Bruce took me in - my room just felt too _big_.”

None of that stopped us from feeling gutted as we stood on the border of the razed, charred ruins of the once-grand Wayne Estate. 

Barely any time had passed since Luthor declared war on us, and it was already clear we were going to need more supplies, better equipment. At least if we stood a chance in hell at surviving. Dickie and I volunteered to head back to the manor and scavenge what we could from the cave. We knew the Enforcers had come, looking for Bruce. We had heard they destroyed the house and the cave itself. But the scope was lost on us until we made our way to the edge of the overgrowing topiary gardens and saw it with our own eyes. 

A gaping maw had been excavated into the earth where the kitchen once was, and a tunnel to the cave had been exposed. The service elevator shaft. The rest of the manor’s corpse was char and ash. Ancient wood beams jutted out of blackened framing and piles of broken glass. Some of the larger stone walls still stood, but most had crumbled into heaps. 

The fuckers left _nothing_ untouched, and though I hadn’t thought of the manor as home, I still felt an ugly knot of rage and _violation_ tighten in my stomach. It wasn’t enough for them to hunt us down, kill our friends? They had to take this, too?

Maybe Wayne Manor was more home to me than I figured. 

We started in the cave, rappelling down into the darkness before turning on our lights and getting to work. Not that there was a lot of work to be done. Most of what wasn’t taken had been destroyed. 

“Aw, man,” Dick sighed surveying the damaged trophies Bruce had propped up in the cave ages ago. “They trashed the dinosaur. I _liked_ that dinosaur.”

“Yes. _That’s_ the most important thing right now. Fuck, it’s just a _toy_. Jesus.” I’d meant to keep my voice low. A waspish whisper. I wasn’t angry at Dick, not really. I actually _loved_ the light he brought to the darkest, most fucked up things we regularly went through. But I felt helpless, frustrated. So, as usual, I lashed out at him instead. 

I hadn’t taken the acoustics of the cave into account. And though I had kept my asshole remarks to a hush, they echoed against the stone walls, and I might as well have shouted at him. He froze for a second, the only indication that he’d actually heard me, then sighed and continued pulling through the damaged medical supplies strewn across the cave floor. 

_God damnit._ My stupid mouth hurt him. Again. 

He awkwardly cleared his throat before he sighed and said, “This is a lost cause. There’s nothing left. They took it all. We should get topside.”

He was trying to change the subject and ignore me. But the way he kept his back to me, his attention elsewhere as we made the climb back up to daylight told me enough. Even as he pulled me out to the surface, he didn’t let his hand rest in mine for long. 

We sifted through the manor rubble in silence. A futile attempt to find anything to bring back- to keep us from heading ‘home’ empty handed. He gasped a little and pulled out a blackened, sooty thing. Zitka, the stuffed elephant that was his world after his parents were killed. Half charred, but miraculously still in one piece. With a sad smile, he carefully sat it back down on the pile. 

“What are you doing?” I climbed over rocks and debris, making it to his side and picking up the dusty elephant again. “You should take this back with us.”

“It’s just a toy, Jason.” He echoed my cutting remark from before, then sighed. “You have to know when it’s time to let go,” he continued, matter of factly, badly hiding the ever-so-slight way his breath hitched as he worked hard to push down on tears. He was trying to pretend like he _didn’t_ care, which was so jarringly out of character for him. So _Bruce_ of him. 

“Fuck that.” I brushed off the elephant and shoved it in my backpack. “We’re bringing this back. Because right now, at the end of the goddamned world? We have to remember what the hell we’re fighting for. We have to hold on tight to what we’ve got.” 

I squeezed his hand, trying to make him see how sorry I was. And with tears stubbornly stuck at the corners of his eyes, he finally looked up at me and forced a smile. But I could tell there was more pain hiding under the surface. Something weighing on him, something he needed to tell me, but couldn’t. 

“No, Jason,” he dropped my hand and repeated pointedly, “it’s time to let go.” 

_— — — — — —_

__

_After_

A soft knock at the closet door was all that kept the stewing tension in the room from boiling over into a full out shouting match. Rebecca poked her head in, then slid the rest of the way through the door and latched it behind her. 

“Just came to check in. Things are calming down out there, we might be able to move him, soon.” She pushed past Bruce and I in the cramped space, and made her way to Dick’s side. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her lips as she made her assessment. Clipping a small device onto his finger, her expression became even more troubled. 

“What is it?” Bruce was butting in where he wasn’t needed. Again. Trying to take charge of the situation. Fucking prick. 

“His O2 sats are low. _Really_ low. Blood pressure, too. The vent is doing its job, but I’m more convinced than ever that he’s bleeding internally, and the burns…” she trailed off, peeking under the bandages on Dick’s side. “I don’t think he’ll survive if we move him. I’m so sorry…”

“No. I don’t accept that. You need to try _harder_,” Damian demanded in a hush. He shot a glare up at Bruce, resenting the steadying hand his father placed on his shoulder. 

_Good to know the kid and I are on the same page._

“There is no _harder_,” Rebecca insisted, irritation warring with sympathy in her voice. “Enforcers are easy to treat, the drugs they pump them full of have a healing factor, they bounce back. But him? They _brutalized_ him, even _before_ they tried to kill him. He was weak and he’s getting weaker…” 

“Why can’t he get the same ‘healing factor’, then?” I felt stupid. Exhaustion kept my brain from stringing thoughts together. It seemed like the perfect solution. Give him the medicine, save him…

“It’s not that simple,” Rebecca huffed. “The drugs are a package deal. Sure, Enforcers get a healing boost. They also get violent, and addicted. I’ve seen withdrawal kill a lot of strong, healthy fighters. Especially recently, after supply was cut.” She glared at Bruce, dropping the blame on his shoulders. “If we give him the drugs, there’s very little chance he ever comes off them. And the time it buys you…” She shook her head. “Those drugs _change_ folks. Make murderers out of the best, most upstanding people. You go down _that_ road and the man we save might be a stranger to you. A violent, sadistic, empty shell.” 

What could any of us say to that? My knees buckled and I sat down heavily onto my makeshift chair. All of that work. All of our effort to save him. And it was too late. _I_ was too fucking late. I put my head in my hands, just wishing that Bruce would leave me alone so I could at least say goodbye in peace. At least get a chance to tell him I loved him. Tell him I was sorry. So goddamn sorry. 

Bruce inhaled sharply, and though I heard the words that came next, I couldn’t believe them. 

“Give him the drugs.” 

One again I was on my feet, in his face, spitting venomously, “Are you out of your fucking mind? Didn’t you hear a word of what she said? Dick’s gone…” my voice cracked, and I looked away, gulping down each breath in a losing attempt to keep the tears at bay. “He’s gone, Bruce. He wouldn’t want to be alive if it meant he would be a _monster_.”

“This isn’t your call, Jason.” He scowled at me, then repeated, “it’s not your call. It’s mine. We need to take this chance.” 

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for him,” I shot back. “You just don’t want to lose another soldier in your pointless fucking war.” 

_You don’t love him. Not like I do. Not like he deserves._

Bruce looked stunned for a moment, “I would hope you knew me better than that, Jason.” He pulled his shoulders back and nodded at Rebecca with finality. 

“Do it.”


	22. Off

__

_ **Dick Grayson** _

“...insane. This is insane…”

“...doctor said _might_, that means there’s a chance..”

“...could kill him, anyway…”

Bits of conversation lodged themselves under my skin like splinters. Sharp. Irritating. Drawing attention away from the most pressing matter - the unsettling feeling of an object jammed down my throat. I wanted it _out_. So I grasped the tube near my mouth and pulled. _Hard_. 

“Goddamnit,” a harried voice spoke. I felt someone near me, someone’s hands _on me._ Searing my skin like red-hot iron and trying to keep me from freeing myself. I blinked once. Twice. And the face of a woman I didn’t recognize came into focus. 

_**Enemy**_, a terrifying, insistent voice whispered in my brain. _**Kill her. Kill her before she kills you.**_

There was no space between the unspoken command and my response. I grabbed the wrist near my face and twisted. Bones cracked beneath her skin, under my palm. The woman stifled a scream, and I pulled the tube again, gagging as it finally came loose. 

“Oh fuck!” A tall man, blue-green eyes filled with a startling amount of fear, leapt across the room and pushed down on my shoulders, keeping me from getting up. 

_Jason. Don’t hurt Jason._ A small, weak voice pleaded somewhere deep in the crevices of my mind. Only to be crushed immediately by another, malevolent force. 

_ **They want to keep you here. He wants to use you. Exploit you. Kill him. Kill him!** _

I wrenched my body from his grasp. Rolled off the surface (a gurney, I recognized distantly) I had been lying on. Got to my feet. Grabbed onto his throat. Pushed him onto the ground. 

_**He’s strong.**_ I winced against the throbbing pain that came as I tried to push back on that urging, loud voice. _**But you’re stronger. You can’t let him keep you here. Kill him before he kills you.**_

My focus narrowed down to Jason’s face, my hands on his throat, tightening as he dug his fingers into my wrists, trying to free himself. I felt other hands on my back, pulling me, trying to stop me from following the command I had no choice but to obey. My heart ached as I looked into his eyes, saw his lips form the words, “Dickie. It’s me. It’s me. I love you. Please…”

My muscles felt like they were tearing with the force as I pulled myself away from him and slid back into a corner of the small room. Over the ringing in my ears, I heard Jason gasp and retch. Still breathing. He was still breathing. 

_Thank God. Thank God._

_ **Weak. Pathetic. Worthless. They’ll kill you. Escape.** _

I found my feet under me and snarled at the broad, scowling man blocking the door. 

_Bruce. Help me. Please._

“Is anything useful for sedation when he’s under the effect of the drug?”

_Damian…_

_ **He’s going to drug you. Keep you as his prisoner. He wants to see you drooling on yourself and chained to a cot. See in his face how much he hates you?** _

Pale faced and wide eyed, the woman in the corner nodded. Her face was recognizable, somewhere deep in a part of my mind that was just out of reach. Slowly, like she was avoiding a wild animal, she crept against the wall toward Damian and handed him a syringe. 

“Richard,” he said as he pulled his shoulders back. An attempt to look imposing. I could see right through it, and I heard the faint tremble in his voice as he continued. “You are not yourself. You _will_ allow me to sedate you so you don't harm anyone else. Is that understood?”

I felt myself bare by teeth and growl. Low and primal, like I was a vicious beast sizing up prey, not a man looking at his baby brother. Damian recoiled, and something like a pained regret registered in his expression. 

_ **Why are they all still alive? Why haven’t you fought back, yet?! He’s just a child. Soft, and easy to tear to pieces.** _

Without any time for me to pull back against the bloodthirsty urge, I lunged toward Damian, slamming him against the wall and knocking the syringe out of his hand. I reached up, grabbed his head, prepared to snap his neck…

_No. God. Please, no!_

Deftly, Bruce grabbed my weaker shoulder and yanked back, pulling it out of its socket. The arm fell to my side, limp, and as I tried to recover, he slammed his foot into the back of my knee - the one he _knew_ I always favored. Even as I fell to the floor, the pain barely registered. Faint background noise to the screaming in my head. Loud. Incoherent._ Violent_. 

“Hold him,” Bruce commanded, and I snarled, gnashing my teeth as both Jason and Damian locked their grips around me, keeping me in place on the linoleum. Bruce picked up the syringe and moved closer. I ripped my arm out of Damian’s grasp and swung wildly at Bruce’s face. He caught my wrist and jabbed the syringe into my arm. 

The dark, angry voices quieted, then stilled. I slumped against Jason’s chest and, before unconsciousness came, I heard him whisper into my hair, “I’ve got you, Dickie. I’m not going anywhere.”

— — — — —

**Before**

Wartimes are always bleak. But somehow, the grey, ash-covered landscape we were faced with during this particular war seemed exceptionally hopeless and desolate. Small community centers popped up, and they did their best to make life bearable for the people who survived. Jay and I volunteered when we could - it seemed to give him a sense of purpose he couldn’t quite find in our night jobs. Food was too scarce to provide, so the centers gave what others donated - clothes, stuffed animals, books… creature comforts. Things to remind everyone of their humanity.

At one point, someone dropped off a guitar to rehome, and I picked it up, strumming a little, my fingers unused to playing after so many years without practice. I barely heard the soft singing that I had begun to accompany - Jason. He sat down beside me and gently leaned against my arm. I adjusted a little and kept playing - it was easier to remember how with Jay’s voice in my ear, gaining confidence with each syllable. 

_“Besame, besame mucho…”_

A Mexican classic I was only a little familiar with. Still, with Jay leading the way, I managed to find the right notes, and I listened closely to him as I fumbled through. Just the resonance of his voice felt soothing, but the words… I translated in my head as he sang. 

_“Oh this joy is something new  
My arms they're holding you  
I never knew this thrill before  
Who ever thought I'd be  
Holding you close to me  
Whispering: it's you I adore  
But if you’re taken from me  
My life would be through  
I cannot continue for one day  
Without you…”_

He stopped abruptly and walked away. I could hear him sniffling as he stalked outside of the center and into the bitter air. Of course, I followed, and I grabbed his jacket on the way out, slinging it over my shoulder as I pushed open the door. Between the constant, frigid fog and the rolling clouds of fallout dust that never seemed to subside, visibility was always poor. Still, I could _just_ make out his shadow halfway down the block. 

“Jason! Jason, wait!”

He didn’t stop, didn't change his pace at all. I set off at a jog behind him. The jacket on my shoulder was still warm, and the familiar smell of leather was a comfort against the creep of sadness that came whenever Jay had these ‘moments’ - waves of overwhelming emotion that he couldn't control and I couldn't begin to understand. At first, we rode it out. He would scream, break down, fall apart. And I’d wait until he was calm enough for me to comfort him. But recently, something changed. And for someone who was trained by the best detective in the world, it was a mystery I couldn’t solve. Why, suddenly, did Jay choose to run, and bear these episodes _alone_?

He must’ve looked over his shoulder, because it was clear he was aware of my pursuit. He set off at a run, just as I slowed to a halt. I couldn’t force him to come home with me. I’d tried that once, it only made him stay away longer. Defeated, I trudged back to the center to gather up the rest of our things and make my excuses, then headed back to the apartment. 

At home, I went through the motions. I took a shower, poked at a meal I should have eaten, and started to prepare for patrol. Stretching out sore, overworked muscles had become a long, tiresome affair. Still, it had to be done, even if the work only reminded me of how old I was getting, and how many injuries I’d endured. It took time to break up the fascia behind thick scars that might pull if I moved too quickly. My joints popped and cracked angrily - arthritis from years of abuse. But at last I felt limber enough to suit up and head out. Alone. Jason was still gone.

I climbed to the top of the building and stood at the ledge before I took a deep breath and leapt off. Free-fall was usually a clarifying ritual, but not that night. Between the swings from highrise to highrise, I felt none of the peace I always found when I flew. If the entire point of my… relationship with Jason was so that neither of us had to face all of _this_ without love or intimacy, why did he always run when things got hard for him? When he _needed_ someone. It was like an instinct. Vulnerability was not something he could tolerate.

On a whim, I changed my usual route to check on one of Jason’s apartments that he still kept. The building was mostly deserted, save a few squatters, so the raging, heartbreaking screams were clear before I even made it up the fire escape and peered inside. Gently, but not quietly (startling Jason in this state was a bad idea), I opened the window and slid inside, careful to give Jay space. He looked at me, his face raw from tears, and shook his head. 

“Why the fuck are you here,” he demanded in a growl. “You need to go!”

“I’m _here_ for _you_, Jay,” I insisted, “and I don’t think you should go through this alone.”

“I just can’t…” he began. His shoulders slumped, and his wrath was clearly waning. “I used to be able to…”

Exhausted, he staggered back to his salvaged sofa and let it catch him as his knees gave out. Slowly, deliberately, I joined him.

“Before this stupid _fucking_ war,” he continued with a shuddering breath, “I could control it. Hold it back. The ‘pit madness’. God, what a dumb name for it. It’s like this…”

He held his hand up to his head, and mimed a clawing motion. 

“Like every fucked up thing I’ve ever thought isn’t a nightmare… it's something I _want_. Even something as simple as…”

“As a song about losing a loved one,” I supplied in a hush.

“Yeah. I can see it Dickie. Vividly. And then the emotions hit, and instead of feeling sad or worried I just look at you, and see you broken, and _gone_, and that damaged, fucked up part of me, the part that the fucking _pit_ poisoned… it _wants_ that. It scares me. And… and…”

I wasn’t stringing his explanation together, but he had started to hyperventilate, so I scooted closer and pulled him against my chest. _Understanding_ could come later. I pressed my lips against his hair as he sobbed, and whispered as I tightened my hold on him, “I love you Jay. I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

\----------

**After**

Nausea brought me back - wave after wave so intense that I was leaning to the side and retching before I was fully conscious. Of course, I remembered wryly, I hadn’t eaten in nearly a week, and my stomach clenched against the void, bringing up acid and bile.

“Hey, hey. You’re alright.” Jason was beside me, and he checked the restraints at my ankles and wrists before combing his hands through my hair, then wiping my face with a cool rag. He was lying. Badly. I was not ‘alright’. Suddenly, intrusive images of Jay, violently and brutally murdered at my hands, filled my thoughts, and I was horrified at the growing sense of _satisfaction_ I felt.

_ **You want him dead. You can feel it. And now you can do nothing about it…** _

My heart pounded faster in my chest. The painful thrumming made the rolling in my stomach worse. I heaved uselessly, and Jason glanced over to someone else with a pleading look on his face. The woman from before. A doctor. _The doctor whose arm I broke._ Her forearm was splinted now, and she stepped closer. 

“If he follows the typical timeline, it won't be long now. Hours. Maybe a day. Withdrawal hits fast and hard. Eventually, the heart muscles just can't keep up. Some people do survive, but very few. I’ve only seen it twice. One of the main points of the drug is to keep people dependent - that won’t work unless the consequences for coming off are dire.”

“But if he makes it…” Damian began. He was standing in the corner, leaning against a wall. I could see him in my periphery, trying and failing to look aloof.

“I honestly don't know what happens then. Enforcers go through months of ‘conditioning’ before and during their time on the drug. It’s the only thing that keeps outbursts, like what we saw, from happening,” Rebecca replied. “The times I've seen someone come through it, they were still essentially brainwashed.”

_ **They’ll hold you here until you die. Escape. Now!** _

I winced against just how _loud_ that ‘voice’ was. And before I could stop it, I heard myself pleading.

“Jay. Jay, please. Everything hurts.” I tugged on the restraints, “They _hurt_. Help me, please. Take them off, _please._”

Rebecca shrugged sympathetically and nodded. “This far in, the combativeness is usually gone. It’s probably safe.”

“No,” Bruce said. “There is too great a risk of him hurting someone. Or himself.”

“Fuck you, he’s in _pain_ for Christ’s sake. He’s…” Jason shook his head, and with a final glare at Bruce, he unfastened the leather straps keeping me on the gurney. 

_ **Go. Go now and don’t stop.** _

I filled my lungs to bursting, only dimly registering that breathing was no longer excruciating, then launched myself away from the gurney and toward the door. I slid under grasping hands, kicked out at the people in the room, my _family_, tried to stop me. But failure was not something the dark, angry voice would allow. At last, I wrenched open the door and spilled into the hallway, immediately righting myself and sprinting toward the closest exit sign. I jumped down each flight of stairs until I was at the bottom, and I pushed open the emergency door. The street was littered with bodies, the wind whipped against my bare skin exposed by the thin hospital gown. And Jason’s frantic voice echoed in the stairwell. But all of my senses bowed in submission to the singular word that my mind had fixated on. 

_ **Run** _


	23. Edge

** _Jason Todd_ **

“Fuck!”

The exit door slammed back in the wind, then swung lazily on its hinges. I held it open and looked out into the murky street, scanning for any sign of Dick. He _should’ve_ been easy to spot, half dressed and out of his mind. But the only things I could make out were bodies strewn across the pavement - former members of the shortest rebellion in history. The Enforcers had spared no one. And now Dick was out there. Vicious. Crazed. 

Dying. 

The reality of that almost buckled my knees. Dick was going to _die_. Rebecca had said _hours_. At most a day before his heart imploded. He was going to die _soon_, and if we didn’t _find_ him, he was going to die _alone_. I leaned against the cinder block exterior of the hospital and took huge, gasping breaths. Panic sparked, threatened to sweep through me like a wildfire. We were _always_ going to be there for each other. That’s what _all_ of this was for. The secrets and the lying - keeping what we had from everyone. And now…

Bruce pushed the exit door open and stepped out into the street. 

“What’s his heading?” Bruce’s voice was cold and detached, the way he always sounded when he was skirting whatever passed for fear in that fucked up head of his. 

“I don’t know,” I whispered, defeated. “He was gone by the time I made it to the bottom of the stairs.”

“Speed and strength are both heightened by the drug cocktail. It made his escape possible, and was why he should _not_ have been unrestrained.” Bruce was trying to hide a rebuke, but I didn't miss it. 

“You think this is _my fault_,” I asked in outrage, “Why dont we take a good fucking look at what got us to the point? Was it you, pumping him full of that shit? Was it you, sitting on your fucking ass while they tried to _burn him to death_?! Was it you, doing jack shit to save him from Blackgate?! Or maybe it was you, sending him into the street when you _knew_ he was too hurt in the first place?! I see a _hell_ of a lot of _your_ fuck ups there, so you are _not_ going to make this _my fault_.”

Bruce tensed, like he was getting ready for me to hit him. And damn, I would have, but a fight with Bruce would take time we didn’t have - would distract from the only thing that mattered right now. Finding Dick. 

Damian rounded the corner, slightly breathless. “Perimeter is clear. I wasn’t able to locate him. Status?”

“We need to find him, that’s the fucking _status_!” I was livid, but it wasn’t Damian’s fault, pretentious prick that he was. Still, all of this posturing was taking so much _time_. And Dick was confused. He didn’t have any warm clothes. He was going to _die_ frigid and afraid and…

I pushed off from the wall and started walking. I didn’t care where. But standing around was doing fuck all - at least moving gave me a chance of getting to him. I felt the brats hand on my arm, trying to stop me.

“Where are you going? We need to regroup and establish a search grid,” Damian reasoned. 

Growling, I jerked my arm from his grip. “That takes _time_. What about this aren't you both getting? Dick doesn’t have _time_. So you go ahead and plan your fucking grid and make yourselves feel like you did all you could when you show up too goddamn late to save him. Again.”

I set off once more, jogging, and ignored whatever bullshit they were yelling at me as they faded from view. Besides, I had an idea where he might be headed. After all, Dickie only ever felt at home, safe and at peace, near the sky. If there was any bit of him left, that’s where he’d be. Just had to look for the absolute tallest point I could find.

I scanned the skyscrapers as I ran, and nearly tripped when I saw him. 

Twenty stories up.

Standing precariously on the roof’s _edge_.

Adrenaline crackled through my veins like lightning. I hurtled myself into the building and started climbing, taking the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. I was _not_ going to be too late. I _wasn’t_. 

I burst out onto the roof. Dick didn’t look up, but swayed slightly, tipping back and forth in the icy wind. If he took a single step more, he would plummet. 

“Dickie,” I called, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Come back towards my voice. I’m here, I can keep you safe.”

Dick shook his head, seemingly unaware that I was creeping closer to him. “It’s so loud,” he said in an anguished moan, “I can’t… it wants me to hurt you. _Kill_ you. I can’t let that happen. I have to make it stop.”

I was almost to the edge of the rooftop before he really noticed me. Before he actually _looked_ at me. His lips were blue-tinged - whether from the cold or his failing heart I wasn’t sure. Maybe _both_. I could _see_ his pulse frantically pounding in his neck. Even his chest seemed to thrum with the force of it. Tentatively, I held out my hand. 

“Please, Dickie. Please take a step back. Stay with me, yeah?”

He gasped for air and looked down at the massacre on the street below, something terrifyingly _desperate_ in his eyes. “They’re all dead. This is my fault. I almost killed Dami, I almost killed _you_... this is the only way to make it stop.”

“Please,” I repeated, “You trust me, right? Through all of this, we’ve trusted each other with our _lives_, and I don’t think, for a single fucking second, you’ll hurt me. The only thing we have anymore is each other. Don’t leave me like this. Step back. Stay with me.”

Tearfully, he reached out to take my hand, and I couldn’t help but remember a time when our roles were reversed - when I was on a figurative precipice and he held me close, made me feel safe. Helped me see why I had to stay.

I pulled him into my arms and he collapsed against me - his muscles couldn’t hold him up anymore. I tugged off my jacket and wrapped it around him, then knelt and cradled him. Probably a useless gesture. With his chest pressed against mine , I could _feel_ his pulse - it’s rhythm stuttering, picking up pace. He was panting, and it was clear he couldn’t draw breath fast enough to keep up with the demands of his withdrawing body. 

“It hurts,” he gasped, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

I did what I could to fight against sobs - tears streamed down my cheeks anyway - and I nodded. “Yeah,” I whispered, “but I’m here. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Desperate, I pulled him closer - I wanted him to know love as he went. Wanted him to understand what he meant to me, what he did _for_ me. I cradled his face against mine, leaving kiss after kiss, even as I felt his body slacken him my arms. 

The door to the roof slammed open. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar, imposing figure step out of the shadows. Bruce, breathless, wearing an expression that was somewhere between shock and disgust. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing,” he demanded furiously. 

This was too much to take in, too much to process. Gently, I laid Dick’s limp body down onto the tar paper and shook my head. Distantly, I realized how this looked. Understood that Dick’s greatest fear had finally manifested.

Bruce _knew_. The secret we had kept for years was there, laid bare on the rooftop. 

Shaking, I couldn’t bring myself to answer the question. I felt the edges of my world collapse in, and I couldn’t pull my focus away from Dick’s face. Ignoring Bruce’s now-inconsequential rage, I leaned down and whispered against Dick’s icy cheek, “I love you, Dickie. And I’m so sorry.”

\----------

__

_Before_

In all honesty, Dick and I never _really_ fit together. He was too self-sacrificing, I was too _selfish_. He weighed the consequences of every action and decision he made. I went with my gut.

He wanted to keep _us_ a secret. I didn’t give a _damn_ who knew. 

The differences sometimes strained us to the point of nearly breaking. Especially when we spent any amount of time around the family. He was adamant that _none_ of them could know. Ever. 

Part of me could understand the reasoning. Bruce would fly off the handle, Tim would retreat to the spaces in his mind where he never _really_ matured. Alfred and the others...they wouldn’t _get it_. But I could never figure out why he cared so much. We had each other, we didn’t _need_ them if they were going to be judgemental assholes about it. 

That attitude was probably why Dickie almost always did the check-ins at the manor alone during the war, before it was destroyed. He’d set out from our apartment in the early evening and be gone hours, sometimes as much as a day or two. With the spotty cell signal, it could be an absolutely nerve wracking span of time. I tried not to show it, but I fucking _hated_ it. Hated that he risked his life for a family that would chuck him out at a moment's notice if they suspected, for an instant, we were… whatever Dickie and I were. 

So it was worry that drove me to go with Dick, one day. I didn't think I could stand another two days of wondering whether Dick was safe or dead. He nestled against my back and sighed as we took off on my bike, and _God_ it felt good. Safe and warm. If ‘home is where the heart is’ then I was home _whenever_ I was with him. Even rocketing down the deserted highway toward the manor. 

Maybe we did fit together, after all. 

As we approached the decaying gates of Wayne Manor, I felt Dick’s body stiffen behind me. He loosened his grip, hid any intimacy that was there before, and slipped into the role of ‘big brother’ he played too well. By the time we made it to the front door, I barely recognized him. And really, maybe _that_ was why I hated coming to the manor. _My_ Dickie had vanished, and the man who stepped over the threshold into the foyer was worse than a stranger - someone I had once _hated_ as much as I had secretly loved. 

The memories made me sick. 

After giving Alfred a bright smile and a jovial wave, Dick headed towards the cave. I trailed behind, uncomfortable in the house that should have felt like home but didn’t. Not when I had to watch Dick pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Down in the depths of the manor, Dick’s ‘mask’ was fully in place. There was barely a hint of _my_ Dickie anymore. 

And it _hurt_. I watched him peruse files, talk with Bruce, check and restock equipment. It was his body, his voice. But the _light_ that he carried, sometimes just for me, was gone. Eclipsed by his fucked up sense of ‘responsibility’ to the family. 

Mercifully, it was a short check-in. Dick grabbed a few bags of fresh kit, and with a congenial farewell, he set off, me trailing behind him again. Topside, he loaded the bike as much as possible, and slung the largest bag over his back. Normally, I would have looked _forward_ to the bike ride home, but just then, I didn’t want it. Somewhere deep in my chest there was a tight ball of anger. Directionless, but _there_. And I found myself bristling at the thought of Dick nestled up behind me, safe and warm.

I tossed him the keys.

“I’m driving?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I nodded, and pulled the pack off his shoulders. He only shrugged, then settled into the front seat. Behind him, I held myself as far away from him as possible, with only the most perfunctory grip on his hips. Concerned, he looked back, but I just nodded. With a shrug, he turned over the engine and headed out. 

On the ride back, the bare inches between our bodies felt like a canyon. Dick took the roads as quickly as he could - I’m sure he wanted to get home and figure out what the hell was wrong with me. And that meant _another_ argument loomed. 

Good. 

I looked forward to the release that fighting with him brought. And maybe, when it was done, the sickeningly heavy stone settling into my stomach could dissolve. In silence and darkness, we hauled the equipment up the fire escape and through the window of our apartment. When it was done, Dick looked at me with a sad resignation. 

“What did I do this time?” 

So he was going to come out swinging, then? No tip-toeing around, asking me how I was feeling or what was wrong - just the razor sharp sarcasm that was always a prelude to our spats. I felt the tension build and was grateful for it - sometimes _this_ was what I needed. Someone to go rounds with, to take the edge off the lazarus-green that was hazing into my vision too often these days. 

I shook my head, “I know you’re not stupid, so dont play this fucking game. Come out and say it. You’re _ashamed_ of _us_.”

He narrowed his eyes - an expression caught between irritation and genuine surprise. “What?”

“That _is_ why you pretend to be “The Golden Son”, right? The consummate big brother? Too afraid of the Old Man to admit that you _love_ someone as fucked up as me?” 

I was spiralling, jabbing wildly, trying to find the sore spot that would make him fight back. I always had to goad him into a shouting match. Fighting with him was like pulling teeth. He was patient and kind. 

To a point. 

“This has nothing to do with me being afraid of Bruce and you know it,” he replied angrily.

Jackpot.

“Really? Because you have a history of kowing to whatever the fuck he wants from you. He fired you, replaced you, pulled you from your life again and again to be his little errand boy. And now, even with the entire goddamn world crumbling around him, you won’t get the balls to just admit…”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ compare those things to me keeping… _us_ a secret,” he interrupted.

Good, he was swearing. The yelling would come next, and then I could finally get the rise out of him I _needed_.

“Who are you, really, without Bruce pulling your fucking strings?”

_That_ was too far, and I winced in afterthought. 

I expected Dick to start shouting. Instead, his shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor for a beat, collecting himself. His voice was level, defeated, when he locked eyes with me and spoke. “You can think what you want, but I am keeping this a secret to protect _you_. Because if this came out? If they all knew? It would divide the family. They would choose sides, say I’d been ‘led astray by the black sheep’. There is no scenario where that ends well for you. I care about you too much to see that happen. But if you think that means Bruce is ‘pulling my strings’ then…”

He trailed off and shrugged, looking exhausted. 

“Dick, I’m sorry…” I began, feeling the leaden dread from earlier threaten to buckle my knees. I fucked up. Again. I couldn’t even get the relief I wanted. I had hurt him again. For _nothing_. 

“Yeah,” Dick interrupted, “I know you are. And you’ll be sorry the next time you pick a fight. And the next time, too. I’ve figured out that this is _intentional_, Jay. I just don’t know _why_.”

He raked his hand through his hair and sighed. The silence between us was _painful_, like drowning. Each breath was thick with the tension. The problem was that _I_ didn’t know why, either. Was it some offshoot of the stupid fucking pit madness? Was it frustration about the secrets and lies we cloaked ourselves in?

Or was it that I didn’t think I _deserved_ him, after everything I put him through?

I settled on a deflection instead of an explanation.

“I’m fucked up, Dick. I keep telling you that, but you’re too noble for your own damn good. You should get away from me while you can.”

He stepped closer. “Is that what you want, Jay,” he asked sadly. “Are you trying to push me away?”

I felt so scared, so small. I felt like I was standing on the edge, teetering into the lonely abyss that was life without Dick. I shook my head and whispered my reply, “I need you, Dick.”

Gently, he cradled my cheek. “You need me?” He echoed with a question. “I need _you_. I need you enough to lie to Bruce, to keep you safe. I… I can’t do this without you. Please, don’t push me away.”

\----------

__

_After_

Small gasps still slipped in and out of Dick’s throat, even though everything else about him looked _gone_. The blue tinge of his lips had become a lurid purple, and he had stopped shivering. His pulse, once pounding and frantic, was so faint I had to _search_ for it. When I found it, there was no regularity at all, just a terrifyingly dull flutter.

“Move,” Bruce commanded. 

I was too numb to argue. Too numb to comply. I just sat there beside Dick feeling empty and cold. I barely registered the shove that sent me off to the side, and I watched impassively as Bruce started CPR. 

“The doctor said resuscitation would be fruitless, Father.” Distantly I wondered when Damian had arrived, or how he had found us. He sounded as heavy as I felt, and his face looked so _young_ when it was filled with grief. He folded what looked like a makeshift comm unit into his pocket, then knelt down beside us. 

Something about his desperation gave me clarity. Bruce was _right_. We couldn’t give up - we had to try everything. I scrambled up to Dick’s head and got myself into position to provide breaths while Bruce handled compressions. 

“Don’t _touch_ him,” Bruce growled. The rage in his eyes was like a kick to the chest. His expression said everything - in that moment, he _hated_ me. Viewed what he _saw_ \- the tenderness and kisses I gave to Dick - as a perversion. Corruption and depravity that I had passed onto his Golden Son. 

“Fuck you,” I said, anger flaring. He didn’t stop me when I leaned down to fill Dickie’s lungs with my breath. 

Time moved so slowly. Each breath and compression felt like it took a lifetime. In slow motion, I glanced as the access door swung open again, and Selina and Tim stepped close to us. 

“Sorry it took so long,” Tim said as he sat a small case on the rooftop next to us. “It’s getting bad out there again. A second wave of insurgents.”

Efficiently, he opened the case - a portable AED - and started attaching the leads to Dick’s pale and motionless body. Once he was finished, he said “Everybody, back.” Then he pressed the large red button in the case, and I watched helplessly as Dick’s body jolted, and was still yet again. 

“Selina, take over for Jason,” Bruce demanded as he began compressions again. 

She looked at me, and must’ve seen something frightened and desperate in my expression. “He’s doing just fine,” she said reassuringly, and squeezed my shoulder tightly. 

Tim prepared another shock from the AED. My throat felt tight, and a relieved sob broke through when I saw what I could only explain as a miracle - color making its way back into Dick’s cheeks. His lips pinked up, ever so slightly. His chest rose and fell on his own. I nuzzled my face against his neck. His pulse was still terrifyingly erratic. But it was _there_. I breathed in the smell of his skin. He was still with me. It wasn’t over yet. 

Without warning, I felt my body slam against the rooftop. Bruce had grabbed my arm and wrenched me back from Dick. “Get _away_ from him,” he growled. 

“Bruce!” Selina stepped between the two of us, startled. “What are you doing?” 

“I will not let him _take advantage_ of Dick. I should have seen it before. What he’s doing is _sick_.” Bruce’s nostrils flared. He was incensed. The fear that had no outlet before had become fuel for his rage. And I was his target. 

Familiar territory. 

But this time he was accusing me of… hurting Dick? I got to my feet. I was _not_ going to let him call what Dickie and I had _sick_. And I wasn’t going to let this bullshit waste whatever time I had left with him. 

I would have decked the Old Man, but Selina was already yelling. 

“Have you lost your mind? I know you’re not _that_ stupid. They’re... _together_.”

“_Together?_ They’re _brothers_,” Bruce raged. “Brothers! And what Jason was doing to him…”

He trailed off, and refused to look at me. Damian was staring at the ground, shaking his head. Tim looked frozen - trapped somewhere between aghast and revolted. All _I_ wanted to do was _hold_ Dick. Pull him against my chest and keep him warm. Safe. Like we promised each other. 

“I’m not going to say I understand,” Selina said, with her voice low, “but the two of them have been through enough to change both of them. Maybe, when Jason was Robin, they _were_ brothers. I don’t know. But right here, right now, they’re not. Are you really going to deny Dick the comfort of someone he _loves_? He’s dying, Bruce.” There was deep sympathy in her eyes as she put her hand on the Old Man’s shoulder. “Dick is dying. Your feelings about _them_ have to wait.” 

Bruce stood, frozen, blocking me from Dick. Of course, he would say _protecting_. 

Behind him, I heard a weak, frightened whisper. A faint breath against the icy winds sweeping across the rooftop. 

“Jay…”

Without thinking, I started to rush toward Dickie. Bruce grabbed my shoulders and dug in his fingers. 

“I am not _approving_ of this. I am _allowing_ you to go to him because he needs you. Make no mistake - whatever this is, it's _sick_,” he growled. 

Angrily, I pulled out of his grip and knelt by Dick. He was shivering, and I held him close again. The weeks and weeks apart, the fear and sadness and grief - it all came pouring out. I sobbed against him, terrified to face all of this alone. Without him. 

“Jay?” His voice was a little stronger, this time. “It’s ok.”

Leave it to him to comfort me while _he_ was the one dying. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Dick. I _need_ you…” I trailed off when I felt him grip my arm. Tight. 

“You need me…” he echoed.

I leaned back to look at his face. He was still pale, still panting. But his eyes were clear. The delirium that came from the Enforcer’s serum was gone. I felt for his pulse - a little fast, but steady. Strong. 

Leave it to Dick to beat impossible odds. For me. 

Trembling with the effort, he pulled me down into a tender kiss. I flicked my eyes to the side, toward Bruce and the others. He followed my gaze, and smiled weakly. 

“...don’t care about him, anymore.... Only care about you…”

I nodded, and kissed him again, ignoring Bruce’s disgusted scoff. As the sound of the raging insurgents below echoed up to the rooftops, I knew only one thing to be true. 

We needed _each other_. Not the ‘family’, not Bruce. And we would face this fucked up hell together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the last (though it might be a longer one with an epilogue attached). Can't wait to finish this story for all of you who have stuck with me through thick and thin!


	24. Together

_ **** _ ****

** _Dick Grayson_ **

Hazy sensations blurred into and out of my consciousness. Icy cold wind. The rooftop. Bruce’s growl. Jay’s warm kisses. The only thing I _could_ make sense of was that the violent, terrifying voice that had hijacked my mind was _gone_. And I could breathe again. 

Distantly, I felt someone, not Jay, pick me up and carry me down the stairs. I tried to ask, “where’s Jason,” but my brain was too muddled to even remember how to say the words. My chest _hurt_, but I couldn’t understand why. All I wanted was Jay. I clung to Bruce instead, taking whatever comfort I could from his warmth, his _solidness_. As my vision faded, I kept my eyes fixed on his disapproving frown. His disappointment almost hurt worse than the pounding pain exploding against my ribs. 

In spite of it all I felt like I could relax. I was _free_. Free from that horrible voice, Blackgate, LeGrande… Even - inexplicably - my injuries. I tucked my head closer to Bruce’s chest and closed my eyes, exhaustion and waning adrenaline taking me to empty unconsciousness.

And then there was awareness again. My head throbbed. A pulsing behind my eyes that brought my palms up to them. I pressed hard, trying to make it stop. When the pain had subsided somewhat, I moved my hands and looked around, taking in my new surroundings. 

The run-down apartment was clearly the new base for the ‘family’. They must’ve abandoned the bomb shelter. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know why. They all milled about, taking stock of what supplies they had left, preparing for the next disaster - the second wave of the insurgency I could see growing through the window across the room. I did a quick head count. Then again. Two short. Bruce wasn’t there. 

Neither was Jason.

Cass must’ve noticed the shift in my body, the sudden change from unconsciousness to wakefulness. She crouched down beside me with a knitted brow. 

“Where is Jay,” I asked her, surprised by the weakness in my voice. 

“Hallway. With Bruce,” she said simply. But she must’ve sensed I needed more explanation so she searched for the words and continued. “They are… talking. About you. And him. Together.”

My heart began to pound. So it hadn’t been a dream, or a hallucination. Bruce actually _knew_. And now he and Jay were having it out and I couldn’t even _be_ there to defend him…

I sat up and tried to swing my legs off the couch I was lying on, but my ribs _jolted_ with the force of my heartbeat. The simple act of _moving_ had my heart racing, and I grimaced, barely hiding the short gasping breaths I couldn’t control. The room spun. On instinct, my hand flew up to my chest, and my fingers dug into the skin below my shirt. The stuttering speed of my pulse made me dizzy. Cass pushed me back down against the threadbare pillows on the sofa and motioned for Alfred to come. 

With a stethoscope and a furrowed brow, Alfred quietly listened to my chest. He frowned.

“Your heart rate is alarmingly high, sir,” he cautioned, “and the rhythm itself is bordering on erratic. You mustn’t attempt to get up again. Not yet. This may be a transient effect, but it may also be that your heart has been permanently damaged. We won’t know either way unless you _rest_.”

“A ‘transient effect’ of what,” I demanded, confused.

Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. There was a certain tone to his exhale that he always got when he was forced, yet again, to explain Bruce’s bad or selfish decisions. 

“Your life was in mortal peril after your ordeal. You _must_ understand that it was the only way to save you,” he began. “Master Bruce elected to have the doctor at the hospital treat you with the serum given to Lex Luthor’s Enforcers. There is a healing factor…”

“What?!” I cut him off, outraged, and tried to sit up again, but was met with the same horrible feeling of my heart clawing its way to my throat. 

“_Please_ Master Richard. You _must_ stay calm and still.” Alfred pressed down on me again, firmly settling me into the flat cushion behind me. I took a deep breath and felt my pulse slow and settle once more. Calm and still. How could I possibly be _calm and still_, knowing that Bruce did _this_ to me? How could I be calm and still when I didn’t know where Jason was?

As if in answer, the thin door to the apartment flew open and Jason burst into the room. Arms wide, cheeks scarlet, inflamed with rage. Any relief I felt at his presence evaporated when I looked into his eyes and saw not just anger but something nearing _grief_. He stormed over to me, shooting a look behind him at Bruce, who had followed him in. Gently, he scooped an arm under me and began to hoist me off the sofa.

“C’mon Dickie, let's get you up. We have to go. We can’t stay here anymore.”

I didn’t need an explanation to know what had happened - the very thing I’d spent years trying to prevent. Bruce was casting us out. Our alliance with our own family was done. Doing my best to ignore the pulsating pain, I leaned against Jason and got to my feet. We only made it a few steps before I was sagging in his hold. Another two steps and I couldn’t catch my breath. My weak, trembling legs gave out from under me and I slipped down to the floor, cradled against Jason’s chest. 

“It might be better if you both just stay there, anyway” Barbara said, giving us a sympathetic look, then comparing data on a small tablet to the chaos unfolding outside the window. “Things are getting worse out there. Apparently the cameras in the courthouse were rolling right up until the equipment _melted_. Everyone thinks they watched you _burn_ to death, Dick. And people are very, _very_ angry.”

“Feed cut out right after some guard tossed the key to the cuffs away and _laughed_,” Tim continued. “Even by Gotham standards, that's messed up. But it isn’t _just_ Gotham. Riots are popping up in cities everywhere. Bruce was right, the ‘death’ of Nightwing started a movement. Staying here is the safest bet right now.”

Tim wouldnt look at me as he spoke. He kept his gaze fixed out the window, too, like Babs. But there was something else, a tightness in his face, that felt like disappointment. He glanced at Bruce, and continued hurriedly, “but it’s your call, B.”

Jay looked up at Bruce’s impassive face, then back down to me. “We don’t have to leave, Dickie. If that's what you _need_, we can stick together but we can’t…”

“...be together together,” I supplied, understanding the ultimatum before us. “Then help me up, please, Jay. You were right. We can’t stay here.”

I started to pull myself to my feet, keeping an angry glare locked on Bruce. He was _really_ going to make us choose. I managed a little better than before, and with Jay’s help made it to the door. Bruce refused to step aside.

“If you want us gone you’ll have to move,” I spat.

“You should stay while you… convalesce, Dick. It isn’t safe for you to move,” Bruce said, guilt creeping into his voice, “but if… _this_ is to continue, Jason needs to leave.”

I stared at him in disbelief. He really _was_ going to force us apart. 

Not if I had anything to say about it.

With a waspish glare at Bruce, I straightened up the best that I could and took a deep, painful inhale, fighting against the thrashing pulse of my heart. “Move,” I demanded.

“Dick, you’re not well…” Bruce insisted.

“Move!”

I was aware that my breaths had become small, aching gasps. Aware that the force required for me to yell had set me back. But I wasn’t aware that I was slumping back to the floor, or that Jay held me firmly so I didn’t hit the cracking linoleum too hard. 

I could, however, focus on the terrified look in Jay’s eyes. 

“It’s ok, Dickie,” he said, trying to put on a show of bravery, “I’ll go while you rest, and then I’ll come back when you’re feeling better and we can leave together.”

His voice was wavering. He had gone through so much to keep me alive. So much to rescue me from the hell that LeGrande and Luthor’s dictatorship had put me through. And now he was willing to walk away so that I could live. 

“No. No, it’s bad out there. Sounds like it’s just going to get worse. You’re not going alone. I can do this. I can go with you,” I insisted, “I just need some help.”

I heard Selina scoff behind me. “Are you really going to put your discomfort above their _lives_, Bruce?”

“Dick can stay,” he repeated. “It’s his choice.”

“Not a choice,” Cass said, shaking her head angrily in the corner of the room. “Love or death. Not a choice.”

I could hear Tim sigh heavily behind me. “It’s always a choice. They don’t have to keep doing _this_.”

I was heartbroken at the amount of disgust in Tim’s voice. My stomach churned at the thought of him hating me. Hating Jay. For years I had done whatever it took to keep this family together and now it was falling apart. Because of me. Because of my choices. Tim was right.

It was always a choice. 

And this was _my fault_.

“Guys, you need to see this.”

Barbara sounded _excited_, like she had missed the entirety of our conversation. I was hauled to my feet once again, and we huddled around her, then watched the live feed on the small tablet she held. A broadcast from the Global News Network.

But not quite.

The camera pitched wildly, showing a street flooded with armed rebels taking down Enforcers and angrily marching toward the White House.

Lex Luthor’s current base of operations. 

The feed switched to a new locale, one that I recognized as Metropolis. Here, there were some familiar faces fighting in the crowd. Jefferson Pierce - Black Lightning - and his daughters. Then the footage flipped to a different location, and another. All over the world, citizens and heroes were fighting back against the Enforcers and Luthor’s regime. It was bloody. Brutal. And all done in _my_ name, as the hastily painted signs reading “Nightwing’s Army” would attest. 

So many people, dead. 

So much blood on my hands.

I watched Barbara deftly switch between broadcasts from different cities, even as my rushing heartbeat became deafening. 

My fault. My fault. _My fault_.

The pain in my chest ratcheted into agony. I quickly leaned to the side and vomited, but even that was too strenuous. I looked at Jay, wishing I could do _something_ to soothe him, wash away the fear from his eyes, but I couldn’t even stop blackness from clouding my own.

\----------

__

_Before_

Luthor’s ‘Resolution’ had cost us so much. Diana, Arthur, _Clark_… so many were gone in the blink of an eye. And so many lost hope. But not Lois Lane. Even after Clark’s death - no, _murder_ \- she kept in contact with the only remaining original member of the Justice League - Bruce. Most of the time, we would swap notes via old radio channels. On rare occasions, we would make supply runs to her and Jon, braving the dangerous trek from Gotham to Metropolis. It used to be a _cinch_. About forty-five minutes by motorcycle. On foot through perilous, blockaded terrain? Twenty hours. We couldn’t use the ferries, and had to travel far north to the closest Delaware River bridge. 

But it was worth it. We all agreed that the only way to beat Luthor was with a united front. For that to work we had to actually be _united_. And Lois was resolved. She watched them execute Clark. We all did. I think, given the opportunity, she would have killed Luthor with her bare hands in retaliation. After all our losses, part of me could relate. 

We always travelled in pairs. Too dangerous to go as a group, too difficult to go alone. Jay and I had teamed up to bring salvaged computer parts to her makeshift bunker in the basement of the Daily Planet building. She was less able to make supply runs with just two people, and she tried her best to keep Jon out of the fray. The kid had suffered enough already. 

The journey to Metropolis was suspiciously seamless. We skirted armed road-blocks, hid in the wildlife refuge along the coast to rest. Finally, we made it to the Daily Planet. 

“I was beginning to wonder when you two would show up. Take the scenic route?” 

This was Lois’ usual banter, spoken with a hollow smile. The quip reminded me so much of something Clark would have said, and it made the empty spot in my heart held for my favorite ‘uncle’ throb and ache. I could only imagine how much it hurt her to fight to keep him alive in whatever small way she could. 

Jon hopped up to help us with our heavy packs, eager to get to work on integrating the new parts into their beleaguered system. He was a good kid, and Damian adored him, in his own way. I couldn’t help but look at him and think about all he’d already lost, too. How many kids had to watch their parents be murdered before this was all over? Jon was 16 now, only 15 when Clark was killed. _Ten_ when the war started. He and Damian _both_ had spent most of their childhoods living a nightmare. 

I was kneeling down behind the struggling computer bank when I heard Jon make a shushing noise. 

“I hear something. Footsteps,” he whispered. 

We only had a few moments to decide on a course of action. Making ourselves scarce seemed to be the best option. Jon, Jason and I could’ve probably taken a team of Enforcers, but it would only bring more to the location. If they could be convinced the bunker was deserted, it could still be used. 

Silently, we pressed ourselves into the shadows as heavy boots made their way down the stairs into Lois’ safehouse. We kept our breaths small, quiet, as we hid behind old boxes and derelict printing presses. But in the rush to hide we had gotten separated. Jon, Jason, and I were clustered in a far corner. Lois was close to the encroaching Enforcers, tucked behind a desk. Too close. They paused, perhaps hearing her, then turned and opened fire. 

The bullets tore through the old metal and formica desk - such a fragile barrier against too much force. Enraged, Jon swooped out of cover and tore into the Enforcers. Jason covered his back while I crouched and made my way to Lois’ side. Too late.

I was too late. 

She was dead. 

And in just a few minutes more, so were all of her murderers. 

Jon had spared no one. 

Seeing a boy that I had watched grow up covered in blood that wasn’t his made my stomach churn. I took large, gasping breaths, then shook my head. 

“I’m sorry, Jon. Your mom is gone.”

“No. No! This is _your_ fault! They _followed_ you!” Jon was devastated and swinging blindly with his words. “Get away from me. Get out!”

“We need to get you safe, kid. They’ll send another team the second this one doesn’t report in,” Jason tried to reason.

Jon motioned to the bodies around him. The child I had known was gone, supplanted by the grief that had transformed him into a killer. “I don’t think I need protection. Do you? Leave. Me. Alone!”

Jon hovered just above the floor, eyes blazing and fists clenched. A warning. Familiar. The posture Clark had always taken on the rare occasions when he was angry, or defensive. I spread my hands wide and backed away. Livid and hurting like this, Jon was a threat. Before I even had a chance to talk him down, a second team of Enforcers had come to reinforce the first. Jon had been too distracted to give us a warning, and this group had come prepared. 

With Kryptonite bullets. 

They sliced through the air, their potent presence polluting the room enough to slow Jon down. One hit its mark, then another, and another. I charged forward as he fell to the floor, but Jay pulled me back into the shadows. 

“He’s dead, Dickie. We have to get out.”

Trembling, I took a final glance over my shoulder and saw the team circle around a very, very still Jon. They unloaded more bullets into his body, and in the deafening echoes, Jay and I ran. Through the emergency exit, into the street, clinging to the darkness like a suit of armor. We ran and ran until the sun started to rise. Still, we tucked ourselves into the shadows as much as possible. When it was too bright to continue, a thicket of underbrush provided cover so we could rest. 

It wasn't until then that the reality of what had just happened hit us both. 

Jay raked his hand through his hair and sat on the ground. “Shit. That was… that was fucked up.”

Silently, I nodded. I was doing my best to keep it together but the pain of it all was too much. Lois and Jon were dead. And I had done nothing to stop it. 

It was my fault.

“I was sure I’d checked for tails,” I whispered, panic and regret mounting. “But they must've seen us, followed us…”

“Jesus, Dick, not everything in the world is your fault,” Jason hissed. “The second team came prepared for a _Kryptonian_. You don’t just slap that kind of plan together and hope shit works out. They were looking for _Jon_. Lois, too. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

His voice was gentle when he finished speaking. “This isn’t your fault,” he repeated. 

“Damian _loved_ Jon,” I said as I sank to the ground next to Jay. “How am I supposed to tell him that I stood by and watched that happen? Watched them _murder_ him?”

Jay sighed and wrapped his arm around me, then leaned his head on my shoulder. “I’ll tell him, if you want. I’ll tell him the truth, too - that you would have jumped in and done everything you could if I hadn’t bodily pulled your ass out of there. Because we both know you were ready to die for a kid that was already dead. Damian will know that, too.”

I took a long, shuddering sigh. He was right, I knew he was. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of blame, so I lied. “You’re right. He’ll be angry at first, but he’ll know. We should get some rest.”

I started to lie back on the cold ground to catch whatever sleep I could, but Jay grabbed me tight and pulled me into a kiss. Then another. And another. Between each he repeated the phrase:

“This. Was not. Your Fault.”

And when he was finished I almost believed him.

\----------

__

_After_

Once again I found myself sprawled out on the ratty couch in the safehouse. This time, with the face of a vaguely familiar woman hovering over me, concerned frown in place as she moved a stethoscope around my chest. 

“Welcome back,” she said curtly, then smiled. “I remember telling you that you were _not_ allowed to die, so quit trying so hard to, yeah?”

Some of the memories came floating back, close enough where I could grab a few. Rebecca - the doctor from the hospital. I glanced down at her casted arm and grimaced. _I_ shattered her wrist. My fault.

“Sorry about that,” I breathed. It was the only apology I could manage.

She shrugged. “You are, surprisingly, not the first patient to break one of my bones.” Her smile faded and she straightened her posture. A serious expression in her eyes, she said, “We need to cut the pleasantries, though. Your heart is in bad shape. Normally, one the rare occasions this happens with the Enforcers, we limp them along until we can get them another dose. The drugs do their job and repair the damaged muscle and electrical pathways. That obviously isn’t an option for you.”

Sighing, she shot a look at Bruce. He kept his face locked in a blank expression until Jason glowered at him too. Then he tightened his jaw, the only indication that he felt anything at all. 

“I brought medication that might help. Some beta blockers for the elevated heart rate, some other things to support heart function. But I can’t be your sole source for these. Once this supply runs out you'll have to find more on your own.” Unceremoniously, Rebecca grabbed my arm and jammed the needle of a syringe into a vein. Instantly I felt my heart slow, and the pain in my chest washed away. 

“You should be able to walk, do basic care things like make yourself a meal and get dressed. But no hero stuff. Possibly forever. Without a heart transplant, it’s very likely this condition is permanent.” She was so blunt about it I almost didn't register what she had said.

_’No hero stuff. Possibly Forever.’_

_’Heart transplant.’_

_’Permanent.’_

Rebecca stood up and looped the stethoscope around her neck. 

“I have to get back. Hospital staff is ignoring the executive order and treating anyone who crosses the threshold - insurgents, Enforcers, doesn’t matter. How it _should_ be, honestly. ‘Course it means we’re overrun. It's… bad out there. I’ve _never_ seen it this bad.” She turned her attention to the others, clearly excluding me from the request that followed. 

“If any of you could spare a few minutes to get out there and end this, there’d be a lot fewer dead folks in the streets.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Bruce said dismissively, and he motioned to the door, expecting Rebecca to leave. “Thank you for coming.”

As soon as she was out of sight I sat up and planted my feet on the floor. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” Jason was terrified and on me in a second, pushing down on my shoulders. 

“I feel better, Jay. Honestly. Good enough to leave, as _ordered_.” I glared at Bruce, making my intention obvious. “And maybe we can stop a few baddies on the way. Let’s go.”

“Master Richard, I must protest. The medication is _not_ a cure. Strenuous activity could _still_ worsen your heart function,” Alfred was trying to be reasonable, but I was already halfway to the door, and making steady headway out of the apartment with Jay just one step behind me. 

“Tell that to Bruce,” I said sharply, “but if any of you want to try and _stop_ me from leaving, you're going to have to gear up and head out after me.”

With as much strength as I could manage, I pushed past Bruce and into the hallway, down the stairs, and into the roaring crowd filling the streets. Occasional bursts of automatic gunfire echoed over the enraged screams of the rioters, but it wasn’t enough, and Enforcers were torn to shreds if they even dared approach the violent mob. Jay mirrored my own helpless expression. Rebecca had asked for help, to _end_ this. But how? The city was neck deep in the throes of a revolution.

Clarity came when another burst of gunfire cut through the crowd, and I saw, standing on the roof of a corner bodega, a cluster of Enforcers, armed and shooting into the panicking crowd. 

Jay took off at a sprint in their direction, keeping himself ducked low as he slammed through the insurgent mass so he wouldn’t be made a target for the cadre picking off people from the high ground. I followed as quickly as I could, though it was becoming increasingly clear that my heart, and even my muscles, were not up to par. I lagged behind. 

Jay was nowhere in sight by the time I reached the convenience store. A small alley behind it gave access to a ladder and the rooftop. Slowly, agonizingly, I climbed, and did everything I could to ignore the black spots swimming into my vision. I wouldn’t help anyone if I passed out near the top of a building and splatted myself on the pavement below. Though it looked like I wasn’t going to be of any help anyway. I peered up over the edge of the roof and saw that Jay had already put down most of the Enforcers, slamming into them the way only a brawler like him could. He was going rounds with one of the last stragglers, a frighteningly familiar face. Novak. The sadist who would have let me burn to death for his own amusement.

As I pulled myself fully over the ledge, Jason landed a devastating blow, and Novak fell to the gravel on the rooftop. Jason went down after him, hit after forceful hit connecting with Novak’s face and chest. I made my way over to him as quickly as I could, but I still had time to make out the long stream of obscenities peppering his rage fueled ranting.

“You fucking killed him you piece of _shit_! He’s going to die because you’re a _monster_! A fucking monster!”

I could recognize Jason’s loss of control a mile away. Carefully, purposefully, I walked up to him and crouched down. I took his hands, gently, in my own and whispered, “I’m here Jason. I’m safe. I’m not dead.”

He looked at me with tears streaming down his face. “Your heart, Dickie. Your heart is _fucked_ because of _him_. He doesn’t deserve to live.”

“No. Jason, no. Listen to me. This is important.” I tightened my grip on his hands, firmly holding his wrists. I couldn’t let him kill Novak. There had already been too much death on my behalf. Terrance, Davis, LeGrande, and every single person killed by ‘Nightwing’s Army’. I couldn’t bear to add another to the tally.

“The drugs, Jason,” I tried to explain. “All of the Enforcers are on drugs - they’re not in control of what they're doing. They’re just programmed to _kill_. Even _him_. We have to be better than that. They’re _victims_, Jay. Trust me. I know. They can’t help it.” 

Jason took a shuddering breath, and I nodded, relieved I was getting through to him. I pulled him into a hug - tight and reassuring. War raged around us, echoing up from the streets below, but I felt _safe_, and I pulled myself even closer to Jay. 

“I don’t want you to die. You can’t leave me. But your heart… and without Bruce, we can’t get the medicine you need... ” 

There was so much fear and loneliness in his broken sob. And though I had spent the entirety of our relationship cloaking us in lies, I vowed to make only one more. 

“I won’t leave you. Not ever. We’re going to be ok. I promise.”

The truth was, I had no idea what would come next for us. No idea how we would make it without the ‘family’. But holding him, feeling him sob in grief and relief as he wrapped his arms tightly around me, I did know one thing. A fact I should have realized from the start. 

No matter what, we would get through whatever hell came next. Together.

\----------

_Epilogue_

** __ **__

_ **Jason Todd** _

I watched from a distance as a breeze gently ruffled Dick’s hair. Six months ago it was almost impossible to imagine this level of _peace_, but here we were, on a fucking gorgeous beach off the coast of Africa. 

São Tome. Dick’s ‘retirement dream’. 

Not really. I could tell he missed Gotham. Missed his Dami and the rest of the family, even if they were strained to breaking. Like his heart, forever damaged by what he’d gone through. So he went with me without complaint, even though he didn’t want to leave that fucked up city. In some ways, it was painful to watch. His wings had been clipped. Permanently. But we were _together_. And there was so much of his spirit still there, just waiting to be pulled out of the rubble. 

The warmth of the coast was startling after years of a frigid nuclear winter. But this place was remote enough to only cool slightly. The sun could still make it through the barest clouds of ash that made it this far. It felt like we could pretend the past hadn’t happened. God, I wanted to pretend. 

Things got so much worse before they got better. The end of Luthor’s reign had been as brutal as the beginning. Neither Enforcers nor sympathizers were spared - the revolution had taken them all as casualties. Start to finish, it took only 3 months for the revolution to take its course, and for old governments to reinstate their own powers. Fucking impressive, honestly. Its amazing what people can do if they all band together under a single cause.

Nightwing’s ‘death’ was all the catalyst they needed. Something so fucked up and _wrong_ that people finally had enough. Seemed ironic that his heart was failing, now, when it was his heart that brought people together in the first place. 

It was over. Finally over. But things would never be the same. The family was divided by us, with Bruce and Tim completely refusing to speak to us, and so much pain and confusion from the others that it would take ages for the wounds to close enough for us to come back.

And that was just _our_ lives. All told, after the war, Luthor, and the revolution, nearly five billion people died. Friends, loved ones, and enemies alike. But not Dickie and me. We survived.

Because we had each other. And now, that was all we needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all! For your love and patience, and most of all, thank you for reading!


End file.
